


FIREBIRD

by 7veilsphaedra



Category: Saiyuki Gaiden
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-04
Updated: 2010-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7veilsphaedra/pseuds/7veilsphaedra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the Russian fairytale The Firebird, using characters from Saiyuki Gaiden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Despina Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Despina+Moon).



  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Jiroushin**| 

Count Galkin  
  
---|---  
**General Kenren**| 

Ivan-Tsarevitch  
  
**The Jade Emperor**| 

The Great Imperial Tsar Vasilyi  
  
**Konzen Douji**| 

Konstantin-Tsarevitch  
  
**Son Goku**| 

The Golden Monkey  
  
**Li Touten**| 

Naslednyev-Tsarevitch  
  
**Goujun, Dragon-King of the Western Seas**| 

Stefan Volkyev, the Wolf-King  
  
**War-Prince Nataku**| 

Tsar Nasradin  
  
**Toushen Homura Taishi**| 

Ushkar Khan, the renegade  
  
**Kana'an**| 

Irena Galitzen of Ushkara  
  
**Field Marshal Tenpou**| 

Prince Ilya  
  
**Kanzeon Bosatsu**| 

Baba Yaga  
  
**Gyumaoh, the Ox-Demon King**| 

Khoschei, the Immortal  
  
**Firebird**  
Part One (6,813 words)

Count Galkin elbowed through the crowd, the sabre strapped to his waist all the apology and authority he required. The cause behind the craned necks and invisible tendrils of curiosity was already clear to him. He sidestepped people standing on barrels and crates, leaning from under the awnings and shade-umbrellas, peering from doorways. They collectively seemed to hold their breaths, every sound absorbed in the hush except for wind moving through elms---monumental trees planted by the first great Tsar centuries before---and the vast river's murmur which floated over the cornice on the high banks where the city rose, its stones a dazzling gold in June sunlight. Even crows lined along a buttress of the cathedral like a set of avian gargoyles to watch the scene with interest as rapt as any of the people far below. Smells drifted lazily, like pollen: spices and bales of cloth hauled up from the river barges, the scent of roasting meats, ripe peaches and other fruits, livestock and fresh hay driven in from the countryside, sawdust and pine smoke. The faintest whiff of ozone spiked the marketplace, as though lightning was poised to strike.

The excitement peaked. A ripple pulsed from its epicentre, and then shouts and cheers erupted from many voices at once.

Galkin pressed his lips together and redoubled his efforts. It was not so difficult now that the event which gripped these onlookers had passed. They dispersed, their gossip and laughter like a surprise sun shower. Before long, he stood where his suspicions were confirmed.

Ivan-Tsarevitch had clapped an arm across a gypsy's shoulders, his white teeth gleaming in a golden-brown face, his short black hair messier than ever. A fat merchant slumped face-down across a rough pine crate, discarded glasses and bottles rattled and clinked downwind of his snores. Galkin glanced over the full beard, handlebar moustache, gaudy robes and iron _Monomakh_ helmet in a turban of fine striped cotton which had still tipped off for all the weavings and wrappings, leaving the man's bald pate exposed and oddly vulnerable like a baby's---the usual buffoon, either jovial or maudlin, who could always be found near the prince's worst excesses. Things had to have been pretty dull for a mere drinking contest to attract so much attention, Galkin thought, although that may have been due more to this particular contest, and this particular contestant, which---if rumours were true and, sadly, they invariably were when it came to this young man---had started in a more violent sort of duel.

"Your Imperial Highness," the count sniffed.

"Galkin, I thought I heard hens clucking." With his youth, good looks and easy-going nature, Ivan-Tsarevitch was one of the most popular of the great Tsar's sons; Galkin glared at the gypsy who looked like she was enjoying their physical proximity a little more than she should. The prince's fearlessness and willingness to defend others had also earned Ivan the most warrior-like stature amongst the princes, although his lack of respect for social proprieties was a constant nuisance. "Someone make off with another peach?"

"Is it necessary to air His Imperial Majesty's difficulties so publicly?" The retainer scanned the stragglers for shifty eyes.

Since the Tsarina's golden peaches had started to disappear, everyone in the Tsar's immediate circle felt on edge. Konstantin-Tsarevitch, the oldest son, had kept watch on the first night after the theft and had been lulled to sleep, but had woken up in time to see a golden monkey disappear up the walls of the courtyard and over the palace roof. The count assumed that the crown prince had been dreaming, but if such a creature was to be found, most likely it would be in the company of gypsies or one of the boatmen off the river.

The steel in Galkin's jaw and shining across his _cuirass_ quelled any lingering uplift of celebration. Merchants and housekeepers, gypsies and urchins alike sobered and returned to their stalls and handcarts, their hawking and haggling, their thievery and games. On cue, a gust of wind billowed, lifting canopies, skirling dust and straw across the cobblestones, and distracting the last few gawkers.

The innkeeper bustled out to gather her strewn vodka glasses and empty bottles, wiping the spills and messes, pocketing fallen coins, and sweeping away the shards of broken glass.

"Here!" the handsome young prince flicked a small pouch cinched with waxed cord to her, "Make sure Pishchek is hauled safely to bed and his door is secured."

With one hand, she caught the packet of gold kernels---more than a full quarter's custom at her establishment---and tucked it into the waistband of her apron, bowing and bobbing like a puppet.

The count inhaled long and deep for patience. Morning had already sharpened into glare and heat. Prince and retainer began their walk toward the palace, and the servant had to trot in order to keep up, his shorter legs no match for the young master's long strides. He tried not to dwell on the undignified appearance of it.

"So, what is it now? No, let me guess: on his shift in mother's garden, dear Naslednyev-Tsarevitch failed to capture our thief."

Galkin noticed a slight bitterness --- not quite a jeer, but a testament to the true feelings shared between the two brothers. What was the point of confirming the obvious? Yet Ivan-Tsarevitch was drunk, not stupid. The lack of customary carping from Galkin must have revealed the seriousness of the situation, for the count was commanded to "Speak!"

Galkin licked his lips. "Naslednyev-Tsarevitch denies that he fell asleep. He claims that he was distracted, and in that moment, the creature made away with another peach."

"A likely story! What distracted him?"

"The Tsar is livid."

"Yes, yes, we know that he has always cared more about the Tsarina's garden than his own children."

"You're being unfair."

"And you're going to prove me wrong, Galkin?"

"This time, Ivan-Tsarevitch? The wife of a certain ambassador was summoned."

There was no need to explain. The sun hadn't quite left the prince's eyes, but they weren't as bright either. He knew, but Galkin couldn't help himself; his mouth jabbered on its own accord. There was no need to go into which treaties were on the verge of crumbling, or how the Cossacks were this close---_this_ close!---to insurrection, or how tasteless it had been to leave the woman's underclothes scattered in the Tsar's reflecting pools, or how this had offended the ambassador so deeply --- so very, very deeply---that first his daughter, and now his wife … and to actually fight a duel! The count's nostrils puckered. Well, that part was okay, since no one had actually died and it had ended up in a drinking contest. They all knew what they had been up to, of course: prince, ambassador, daughter and wife alike, no feigning innocence here.

Even the Tsar knew! Galkin continued. His hands were tied, compelled to act in roles he found distasteful, a doting father now forced to become a punitive one, a kindly, indulgent ruler who now had to steel himself in the name of justice. It was, in fact, a mockery of justice since _everyone_ knew exactly what happened, which meant that permission had to have been tacitly provided, except that now certain parties were denying it, and now the country was on the verge of war --- or _closer_ to the verge, since they always seemed to be on the verge of war. Clearly the whole nonsense was set-up as an excuse for leverage in treaty negotiations intended to forestall declarations of war … Small wonder the Tsar's temper turned foul.

And Galkin could picture how Ivan-Tsarevitch had flashed that wide-eyed, lopsided-grin, that affectation of artlessness---Yes, yes, just like _that!_ Bands of tension tightened around the count's forehead. He was all too aware of how much Ivan's charm concealed, and to what purpose? ---Now that his escapades had been witnessed by the most calculating schemer of all.

"Ah-hah," Ivan-Tsarevitch finally spoke. The brisk walk and tirade back stopped short. Galkin could finally catch his breath.

"Naslednyev knows Konstantin and I don't want the crown." The youngest prince tracked the retainer's fidgeting through long eyelashes, his smile more dazzling and dangerous than ever. "Konstantin's itching to be ordained a priest so he can hide in his hermit-cave and study scriptures all day long. As for me, all I want to do, besides fight for my country, is drink, carouse and enjoy life to the fullest. And since there is no better role for a third son, why shouldn't I? When my beloved father, the great Tsar---God grant him eternal life! ---eventually dies, the crown will pass to Naslednyev directly from Konstantin's hands. Why would they interfere with my sport?"

Galkin could tell Ivan-Tsarevitch was crestfallen in spite of his show of bravado. He knew what was in store for him.

"Are you to be my jailor, Galkin'_tchkaya?"_

The retainer sighed and drew his sabre. The prince was no coward.

"Mercy!" Galkin tossed the weapon over the cornice and winced as it clattered down two tiers of hanging garden, scattering clouds of large crows which squawked angrily. "I am disarmed."

The prince laughed. His eyes softened, but didn't completely release their threat.

"Since you ask, my dear prince, and lest you imagine words ever crossing my lips against your beloved brother, Naslednyev-Tsarevitch---God keep him!---I pose this question. Do you believe in your heart that he will allow the Imperial crown to pass into Konstantin's hands peacefully?"

Every trace of the prince's smile vanished. "Exactly what advantage would Konstantin's death bring to Naslednyev?"

"There are some who would say that, even with indulgence for youth and inexperience, it is unforgivable for an Imperial Prince to be so reckless and, yet, so naïve."

Before the count finished speaking, a double-edged long sword tickled the skin just below his jaw.

"Nobody will believe that I disarmed a crafty old fox like you," the prince explained as he slowly dragged the tip in a diagonal slash across his skin, drawing blood but piercing nothing vital below the surface, "unless you show signs of a fight."

With a last flourish, Ivan-Tsarevitch withdrew. Galkin rummaged through his pockets for a handkerchief and daubed at the scratch. At least the prince had spared his face; even elderly men have their little vanities. By the time he looked back up, the prince had disappeared.

Sighing, he peered over the cornice and wondered how much it would cost him to have someone retrieve his sabre.

When Ivan-Tsarevitch choked awake on a snore, the first thing he blearily stared at was Konstantin-Tsarevitch, or rather, the golden glow of his brother's hair, since Ivan seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes. He rubbed them and tried to lift his head. Big mistake! Back he dropped onto the soft thing he had, from the feel of it, been drooling over, and he groaned, "Who owned the horse that kicked me?"

Konstantin was reclining against heaps of silken pillows, limbs composed under white counterwoven linen embroidered with gold, the usual half-sneer on his face. "Next time you decide to haul yourself out of a chamber pot and crawl into my bed, at least take off your boots. What? Were you scraped off the river bottom this morning? You smell like a horse-rug braided from the armpit hairs of a thousand peasants. Couldn't you have had the decency to bathe first?"

Ivan grunted as his booted feet were kicked off Konstantin's fine coverlet, his memory of the previous night drabbling back. "Sorry, I was a little preoccupied, dodging Cossacks, keeping my head from being skewered on a pike."

"And that's another thing. Last night, what were you thinking?"

Ivan rubbed his forehead. Did they really have to do this? It kept repeating, like a fatty breakfast. "Um, that she was really…horny? And she kept doing this weirdly mesmerizing little bobble-shimmy thing with her--"

"Stop! Tch, I didn't ask for details."

"Not everyone in this world volunteers to become a eunuch." Ivan almost managed to lift himself up onto an elbow to protest.

"Spare me, Ivan. You messed things up."

The young prince's head flopped back. "Yeah? Well, sometimes things need messing up."

For once Konstantin didn't tell him to shut his mouth.

Ivan had an excellent view from where he stretched across the foot of his brother's bed of the first famous firebird tapestry, one of the most valued heirlooms of their house. It was draped over the secret doorway to the third suite of Konstantin-Tsarevitch's enfilade, the one Ivan had snuck through earlier that---was it still day?---sometime before noon. The tapestry had been woven in silks and fine linen and embroidered with gold threads and seed pearls by their nth-degree-great-grandmother, Tsarina Yelena Vasily Vasilyovna. It told the story of the first Ivan-Tsarevitch, his own namesake, and the legendary prince's quest to find the thief who had stolen the first great Tsar's golden apples, and rescue the first Tsarina Yelena. For over two centuries, it had brightened the great hall, while some miraculous power protected it from the ravages of moths, smoke and light, until a younger, more frivolous Tsarina decided it was too quaint and outdated, and had replaced it with an even grander tapestry made by the greatest needle-artists of her age. Ivan-Tsarevitch had to admit that the newer one had not held up so well.

Something was scenting the air with pungent, almost acrid smoke. A sinuous curl rose from the bowl of a hookah beside the prince's bed.

"Is that the source of your devotion to God, Konstantin? Turkish hash?"

_"You_ are planning to lecture _me?"_

"Hell, no! I'm just surprised, that's all. Shocked speechless, in fact, but---hey, whatever pulls you through those strong, black dregs of the long, dark tea-time of the--"

"Stop projecting your dregs onto me."

"Does anyone else in the family know about your little Turkish habit?"

"Unlike you, I'm smart enough to keep my mouth shut."

"Yeah? Like right now, for example?"

"For someone who claims he's shocked speechless, you talk too much." Konstantin lifted the mouthpiece to his lips and inhaled a stream of cooled smoke. "Shall I ring for some footmen and, while they're_\---cough! cough!---_arresting you, let you persuade them that I have a problem?"

While Ivan barked with laughter, Konstantin tipped his head back and let the effects work through his body, "I assume there was a reason you came to see me specifically? Other than to drag horse-shit over my blankets and lose another battle of wits."

Then he passed the mouthpiece of the pipe over to his brother.

The smoke helped Ivan quell any lingering nausea after that morning's drinking contest. His mind wandered back, past the early afternoon when he had first stumbled up the secret passage and heard his brother in the next chamber, barking orders to servants, dispatching messages to the Hierophant. He recalled the steady thump as his oldest brother pressed his seal upon document after document, how the summer heat, the stuffiness of the room, the lack of sleep and that rhythmic thump-thump-thump seemed to combine in a haze, sending him off into strange dreams where clockwork wolves spoke, and a very strange woman flew across his path in a motorized mortar and pestle, and huts tore around on mechanical brass chicken feet, and---Konstantin's foot jostled him roughly---_oops,_ right!

"Naslednyev's betrayed me."

"You give him too much credit, Ivan-Tsarevitch. Naslednyev simply took advantage of the mile-wide opening you gave him."

"He's coming after you now, and you won't have your_\---cough! cough!---_handsome Ivan's razor sharp, double-edged long swords to protect you."

"What difference does it make how sharp your swords are, with wits like yours? I don't need either, in any case."

"Oh, that's right. Because you're so well protected by God, is that it?" Ivan tapped the silver and glass hookah with the toe of his boot.

Konstantin's eyes flew to the pair of pistols lying in full view on the tray where the hookah had been set. "You would underestimate the power of the priests?"

"Is that what they're calling them these days? I can't tell who's worse: Naslednyev and his toadies or you and your priests." Ivan held out the mouthpiece so the other prince could take it back.

"You should know the answer to that by now, Ivan." Konstantin accepted the pipe and inhaled long and deeply. "Are you truly clueless enough to risk life and limb staying here just to tell me something I already knew? Stop beating around the bush and tell me what you want."

Ivan-Tsarevitch sat up and looked straight at Konstantin. "The golden monkey."

Not a ripple of change crossed the crown prince's expression. That alone confirmed Ivan-Tsarevitch's suspicions.

"The one thing which will return me to father's good graces, Konstantin," he rolled his eyes. "Where is it? Cough it up."

Konstantin stared at him, considering. He sighed and pulled himself out of bed.

"You don't ask for much, do you?" He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a rocket, the type which lit up summer festivals at night. He calmly walked over to one of the narrow rectangular windows that opened, high above the hill on which the palace was built overlooking the city and river. He shooed away three large crows that had perched behind the filmy curtain on the open sill, almost as though they had been eavesdropping on the conversation. They flapped off with furious croaks and jeers, while he jammed the tail-stick into a crack between the mortared rocks.

"Lousy things give me the creeps," Ivan muttered. "That's the second set that have been hanging around too close to me today."

"They're always circling over Naslednyev's apartments." Konstantin said. "You don't suppose he's trained them as spies, do you?"

"Hell if I know." Ivan shrugged. "I'd be more inclined to say he's feeding them pieces of the bodies."

"What bodies?"

"Exactly."

Konstantin ignited the rocket fuse.

"Are you so sure you want to get back into father's good graces?"

"Noooo," Ivan had to admit as he watched the wick fizzle and sputter. The flare shot off into the sky with a whistle and sharp whipcrack of an explosion. Against the gathering dusk of the eastern sky, the starburst sent out trails of golden sparks. "Very prett-_AAAaaaagh!"_

A dazzling white wolf, big as a battle-steed with ferocious red eyes, leapt through the window.

Konstantin-Tsarevitch snorted as Ivan clawed his way free of the pillows and started hoisting himself, sailor-style, up the curtains on the arras above his bed.

The white wolf shook itself with disgust.

"Thank you for responding so promptly, King Volkyev. This shining example of courage is my youngest brother, Ivan-Tsarevitch. Hard as it is to believe, he's actually a general in my father's army."

The white wolf squinted at Ivan. "What does the brat want?"

"Konstantin, a huge talking--uh, talking, gargantu_-um,_ big borzoi?--just jumped through your window."

The crown prince ignored him. He tossed his head in his brother's direction as he said to the wolf, "Dickhead wants the golden monkey."

The creature's red eyes narrowed and hackles rose. "Borzoi!" He growled.

Ivan opened his mouth to add another observation.

"Oh, shut up, Ivan! You're making an even bigger ass of yourself. How the hell did someone like you manage to defeat the Brits at Balaclava anyway?"

Laughing, Ivan climbed back down the hangings.

"This is Stephan Volkyev, King of the Wolves," the older brother introduced the strange---Ivan wasn't entirely sure if the creature wasn't an apparition. King Volkyev's eyes held an oddly knowing expression, which Ivan found unsettling.

"Sorry, a king of wolves?"

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Your Turkish habit must be stronger than I thought."

"Idiot, wolf-kings are shapeshifters."

As if to prove Konstantin's point, the wolf crouched on its hind legs, and pounced. Ivan-Tsarevitch didn't even have time to reach for either razor-sharp, doubled-edged long-sword, its movements were too quick to track. By the time it landed on his feet, however, the wolf had vanished. In its place stood a tall, regal man, with skin so white, it gleamed. Heart pounding, the youngest prince took in pointed ears, fangs, the gray-black tufts of hair which rose above the wolf's temples almost like horns, and cruel, curved claws. Then he noticed the broad chest, powerful arms, and long, supple muscles which could be traced under the close-fitted, suede riding jodhpurs. Apart from looking like a natural-born fighter with gleaming red eyes, the king was a fine-looking man. Ivan swallowed, weirdly aware that he was staring too obviously, and that he was turned on. The Turkish habit was definitely a potent strain.

Volkyev turned to Konstantin. "Wet-nose doesn't know what he's getting into."

"Right, but that's an advantage in this case." The Crown Prince walked over to the samovar and poured himself a cup of tea. As he lifted the translucent china to his lips, he looked straight at the wolf-king. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Hey!" Ivan protested, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why should I take on this burden?" The wolf-king replied.

"In this case, I'm asking as a special favour. Not for his sake," Konstantin jerked his chin in his brother's direction. "But because Tsar Nasradin knows who I am and what I look like. I would never be able to get near enough to the monkey to release him."

"Release him?" Ivan-Tsarevitch continued his litany of complaints. "Who said anything about that?"

Konstantin set the teacup back on the trolley, and spiked it with a shot of vodka. "All you have to do is fetch the golden monkey for father, right? Once you've brought him his thief, and he forgives you, your part is over and it makes no difference what happens after that."

"I guess," Ivan's curiosity was piqued.

"Conceivably, the monkey could even return to the country it came from, right?"

"Yeah, but the only reason I'm doing this at all is so I can get father off my back. If the Tsar wants to keep him, who am I to disagree?"

"I'm not doing this so father can set up a menagerie in mother's garden," Konstantin snapped. "I don't want to be looking after monkeys for all eternity."

"I still haven't agreed to any of this," Stephan Volkyev growled low in his throat. It caught both princes by surprise.

Konstantin nodded. "What do you require?"

The wolf bowed its head in thought. "Ivan-Tsarevitch is argumentative, disrespectful and disobedient, and I need him to obey my exact instructions without question or insolence."

Ivan-Tsarevitch had drawn breath to let out another long stream of argument and insult.

"I can't help you out anymore than I already have," Konstantin pre-empted the blast, sinking back onto the cushions on his bed. "From this point on, it's up to you. If King Volkyev says he wants you to shut up and put up, what are you going to do, Ivan-Tsarevitch?"

Relaxed as he was after dousing himself and most of the floor with hot water, Ivan-Tsarevitch had not really expected the wolf-king to stick around and watch.

Volkyev had continued to balk at carrying and instructing Ivan, and wouldn't even begin to set or discuss terms so long as the youngest prince remained smelly and unwashed. Even though he hated the way it was pointed out, Ivan agreed that the previous night's revels needed to be cleaned off, so Konstantin rang for his servants and, while Ivan and Volkyev removed themselves from view, ordered a steaming bathtub to be wheeled into the second antechamber. After his servants withdrew, the crown prince retired, leaving the two to work out their issues, firmly closing his bedroom door and locking it behind him.

It wasn't that Ivan found bathing in front of others that strange. It was commonplace for nobles to passively let attendants administer to every part of their toilet from soaping down to dressing up. For the sake of their modesty, he usually stripped to his boxers though, at least until the drying robe was placed over his shoulders.

"Take it all off!" Volkyev had ordered.

"All?"

Volkyev did not repeat his order. Ivan decided to play it up, smirking, winking and with much exaggerated waggling of his butt. Volkyev's response was to wet the soap in the basin of rinse water and throw it at him. While he reached out with both hands to keep the slippery thing from shooting off like a fish, a warm and wet washcloth hit him full in the face and hung there for a moment, completely covering his eyes, nose and mouth, stunning him into stillness.

"Wash!" Volkyev commanded while the cloth peeled away.

The red eyes showed no expression as Ivan scrubbed and soaked. The prince didn't need any. He knew he was pleasant to look at, even if his face had an impish quality. He knew that the water brought out the smooth texture of his skin, skin the colour of cream-filled coffee. It felt good to lose the remnants of stale vodka, smoke, sex and sweat, to feel his soapy hands trail across the lean, sculpted lines of his body. Every surface was rubbed clean, and water was massaged into the pores of his face and scalp. He sensed, rather than saw the wolf-king circle him, watching.

"Hey, good to know something about me meets with your approval." Ivan tried to sound ironic. Truth was, the king's attention, the strange familiarity in his eyes threw him off-center, made him scrabble for a psychological advantage. All he managed was awkward and nervous.

"Approve?" Fingers slipped over his shoulder and traced the muscles on his stomach, the needle-sharp tips of Volkyev's nails occasionally prickling just enough to make him aware of how dangerous they were. The touch was electricity and water meeting on the surface of his skin. Goose-pimples rose and the breath fluttered in his lungs. Heat followed and tiny tremors of excitement and fear.

Ivan was mesmerized. The strangeness of being admired by another male didn't trouble him; when it came to pleasure, Ivan never bothered making obstacles out of things like gender. A sticking point was that all of his partners to date, as far as he knew, had been human---although if Ivan was ruthlessly honest with himself, that held less moral currency than it probably should have. _"At least I'm not one of those types of people who---"_ never held much power to sway him. The wolf-king looked about as human as a magical creature could get, and a handsome one at that---once a person got past the glowing eyes, the unnaturally white skin, the pointed ears and fangs, and---Ivan wondered if there was anything else not human about him. So what was it that alarmed the prince while, under Volkyev's scrutiny and soft touches, he felt his clarity diminish?

Before he could push back and challenge the wolf-king, the touches stopped and the creature pulled away.

"It's your attitude that gives me problems," Volkyev snapped.

That was it! The young prince chuckled and picked up the scrub-brush again. He could hear the wolf's thoughts: insubordinate men were more trouble than they were worth.

"I can be quite compliant," Ivan lifted himself out of the water, "with the right motivation."

"Is that so?" The wolf-king murmured. "I wonder. But you haven't a prayer of fulfilling your goal unless you obey me without question, even if my instructions aren't worded to your liking, even if they seem strange and you don't understand them. If you rebel, you place us both in unnecessary peril. So how are we to manage?"

Ivan-Tsarevitch licked his lips. "I can think of a few ideas."

Volkyev stared in silent consideration. After several long moments, he turned on his heels and left the room, "Clean up and be ready to leave in ten minutes. We have a long journey ahead of us."

 

It had always struck Ivan as strange that the sounds of falling blows were so quiet. Apart from a few muffled _thwacks,_ most of the noise came from the force of expelled breath or from surrounding objects which shattered as---he stifled a cry; that one almost took out his kidneys. He tried to ignore the knee that dug into his spine and the sharp grate of shoulders twisted back so far that his arms nearly popped out of their sockets. The pike-&amp;-halberd that slithered along the skin on the back of his neck, on the other hand? ---That had his full attention. Next time Volkyev told him not to touch the cage, he damned well---Wait a minute! If he wasn't able to open the cage, how was he supposed to grab the monkey?

The cage had been the most amazing work of craftsmanship he had ever seen. No matter how hard he peered, he couldn't find a door or latch. The monkey's golden eyes shone so intelligently, they seemed almost human. He had reached out before he even realized it, and next thing he knew, the air was filled with the sound of a thousand invisible bells.

Was it a trap? It was all a bit suspicious. Ivan-Tsarevitch tried not to chew on his busted lip as he was blindfolded, hauled to his feet and frogmarched. He realized there were good reasons why Volkyev expected his cooperation, and this was one of them. Still, it made Ivan-Tsarevitch wonder if the wolf had planned on his being captured.

After awhile, the forced walk stopped; the prince was pushed to his knees. Since he couldn't see, other senses became more acute. The floor, made of smooth polished stone, felt cool against his shins. The scent of jasmine, lotuses and water indicated that there had to be a large reflecting pool nearby. All around him were sounds of shuffling, murmurs, sniffles and coughs. Finally, his blindfold was removed. The spacious marble hall where he had been led was so white and clean and glowing with oil lamps, it took several moments for his eyes to adjust. He recognized the golden monkey's owner, Tsar Nasradin.

Nasradin had been a bit younger when they went to school together, entering the year of the third prince's graduation. Ivan recalled a dark, unsmiling boy dedicated to his studies. The young Nasradin-Tsarevitch's sombre, rigid mannerisms had not only rubbed him the wrong way, they went against his personal religion. After Ivan had left school, he learned that the boy's father had been very ill, and the boy would soon replace him as the leader of his people, which made the prince regret he had not shown more tolerance. Not that he had been cruel, but certainly, at times, disrespectful.

Once, fellow students had convinced Nasradin to slip off the school grounds for a festival. Ivan had wondered exactly how they managed that, but, somehow, it happened. Unfortunately, they had disguised themselves as gypsies, and soon, the city guards---who were on the alert for vagrants---had hauled them off to jail. Ivan had watched while they were led away. First years were not allowed to leave the school unsupervised; that was reason for temporary suspensions. The fact that they had been arrested would result in expulsions. It was an unnecessarily harsh ending to a harmless afternoon. Ivan was known to the guards for reasons he had somehow been smart enough to keep to himself, so he'd charmed them into releasing his schoolmates. That had meant grabbing Nasradin by the head and rubbing it as he'd told the men that the haughty boy was, in fact, his bastard love-child. Everyone had laughed but Nasradin, who shook Ivan off and, as they made their way back to the school, told him that if he ever said something like that again, he would gut him. Ivan had no doubts that he could; even then, Nasradin was rumoured to be a staunch, undefeated warrior. He had also learned to never, under any circumstances, insult the boy's father.

As Ivan took in the wisps of sleek black hair which sprang free from the plait at the nape of Tsar Nasradin's neck, and swept around his face in great arcs like the stamen of an enormous lily, he felt his guts tighten up. It didn't seem like the boy's sense of humour had improved.

"Ivan-Tsarevitch, third prince of my good friend, the Great Imperial Tsar Vasilyi, even though you would have been welcomed in my home as my own brother, you sneak into my private garden as a thief and try to steal my pet. What is the meaning of this?"

"Forgive me, O illustrious and merciful Tsar," Ivan-Tsarevitch replied.

Their conversation would've been less stilted had most of the court not stood around, gaping, in their housecoats and slippers. Ivan was sorely tempted to return to his usual casual mannerisms, it was such a stretch for him to wrap his mouth around these pretty speeches, but decided he would save it for occasions when his life wasn't at stake. For once, the sense of choosing his battles prevailed.

"A thief stole fruit from the Tsarina's garden and my noble father was outraged by these incursions. Watch was set, and my brother, His Imperial Highness, Konstantin-Tsarevitch determined the thief to be this marvellous golden monkey. I came to fetch it for my father. Had I known who the creature's owner was, I most certainly would have approached you first. Your reputation for fairness and reasonableness makes all the subjects of my father's realm thusly amenable."

"Well spoken, Ivan-Tsarevitch." Nasradin gestured to the guards to allow him to rise to his feet. "Although it still does not become a man, let alone a prince, to conduct himself as a common robber. I will forgive your transgression in consideration for the kindness and support extended to me by your father, and for the goodwill of your people. If you prove your worthiness to me, I will even give you the golden monkey and its cage."

"Your Majesty?"

"In the neighbouring fief of the renegade, Ushkar Khan, there is a white steed." The young tsar motioned to his attendant to bring him a _kovsh_ of wine. "You will recognize it by its magnificence and its hooves, which are burnished with gold. Bring me the horse, and the monkey is yours. What say you?"

"As you command, Tsar Nasradin!" Ivan did his best to give off the impression that this task was nothing for him.

While they ceremonially sealed their agreement with sips of wine from the same _kovsh,_ Ivan noticed a crow sitting on the onion dome of the chapel on the far side of the courtyard. It bobbed in what the third prince swore was a mockery of courtly manners, and flew away.

Ivan cursed all the way back to the place where he and King Volkyev had agreed to meet, just beyond the line of cypress which turned the river shores black. The river wound like a silver ribbon in the moonlight.

"You've failed to collect your prize." A silver shadow slipped up from behind. Ivan-Tsarevitch almost jumped out of his skin. He couldn't get used to how something as big as the wolf-king could creep around without making the slightest sound.

"Collect it! How? There was no latch or key. I couldn't find a way to open the cage."

"It opens though---obviously, since the monkey gets out. You just didn't figure out how."

"Why didn't you tell me? More to the point, why didn't you tell me what the trick was?"

"You still sport your head," the wolf yawned. "How did you convince Nasradin to let you keep it?"

"I agreed to collect a horse for him from the stables of Ushkar Khan."

"Good luck with that." The wolf started to leave.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Stealing famous battle chargers was not part of our agreement, Ivan-Tsarevitch."

"No, but stealing golden monkeys was, and I haven't got any monkeys yet."

The wolf-king's eyes narrowed, "A technicality."

Ivan-Tsarevitch set his jaw.

"I'm not here to cover your mistakes." Volkyev turned to leave. "What is the point if you cannot follow simple instructions?"

"You didn't say anything about trick-cages and Chinese puzzles."

"Did you really think it would be like a beggar stealing _pyrahy_ from the foodsellers' carts? I should think that you would've been mentally prepared for things like tricks."

The words were a cold dash of water. Ivan spluttered. Then he thought.

"You're right," although saying it was, for him, like swallowing a live coal. "The foodseller's cart was my dear mother's orchard."

The wolf-king was puzzled by Ivan's sudden capitulation, and seemed to reconsider, offering the young man a fresh perspective. "Ushkar Khan is your father's foe. This is much more dangerous."

The night had grown colder and quieter. Not even a breeze ruffled the forest.

"Once, your father and Ushkar were inseparable friends. Indeed, at one time, Ushkar could barely be prevailed upon to oversee his own kingdom, they spent so much time in each other's company. They hunted, raced, and spoke together long into the nights. They also guarded each others' backs and supported each other in matters of public policy."

The stars looked unfamiliar to Ivan who seldom watched the skies before dawn. He shivered. "What happened?"

"You know that Tsar Vasilyi has several half-sisters from your grandfather's second marriage. When Ushkar Khan fell in love with the youngest of the princesses, the beautiful Irena Galitzen, his years of companionship and support became meaningless."

Ivan-Tsarevitch rubbed his shoulders and stamped his feet to throw off the chill.

"A Tsar receives duty and obeisance from his liege-men." His tone was flat, as though he recited the words by rote and did not quite believe them.

"Easily said, Ivan-Tsarevitch, but you, above all your kin, should know that the heart is an unruly creature." Volkyev chuckled. "Irena and Ushkar eloped. They were also betrayed, and the young king was thrown into the Tsar's dungeons to languish."

Ivan looked into the red eyes which shone like embers. They not only seemed to read his actions and thoughts, but to sense the feelings behind them, and see the causes of them. He wasn't so sure that he wanted the wolf-king to delve that deeply into all aspects of his nature.

"There he remained for several years until, one day, Irena Galitzen was stolen from her safe-house in his country. The Tsar then decided to send Ushkar Khan to the front lines of his wars with the infidels. Instead, the Khan turned renegade. During one of the Armenian campaigns, some of the Tsar's legions were cut off by Ushkar's own troops."

"The traitor!" Ivan spat.

"Are you so sure? The campaign itself was an unmitigated disaster. It almost toppled the Imperial throne. The Tsar was so dangerously overextended that the realm was disintegrating under his feet!---But Ushkar Khan's offer provided him with a way out: he would permit the Tsar's men retreat across his lands; in return, he would be allowed to rule his kingdom in peace, as a neutral region. Since that time, the relationship between Tsar Vasilyi and Ushkar Khan is one of polite restraint and the religious crusades have been set aside."

"Taking this turncoat's horse is a matter of honour!"

"Why is it that matters of honour so seldom have any?" Volkyev growled.

"The Tsar's command is sacrosanct. He is the country and its people. He is the embodiment of God's will. It is not the place of his liege-men to question him. If he tells them to fall upon their swords, then that is what they must do."

The wolf-king let out of puff of disbelief. "Pardon me for saying so, Ivan-Tsarevitch, but this, coming from you, is a little rich."

"What do you mean? I've never---I haven't---I---um … I am a dickhead, aren't I?"

The wolf-king let him sit with that for a moment. Ivan tried to pick through the jumble of his feelings and thoughts. Foremost was the thought that he didn't want the wolf-king to leave, and not merely because he needed his help. The difference between a king and a third prince was never more obvious, the chasm never wider. Volkyev's energy did not leak out all over the place. Ivan not only wanted the wolf-king's perfection and power, but wanted him. His groin grew tight and ached, no matter how much he tried to force it the desire out of his thoughts.

And from the way the wolf-king's eyes would turn into cold slits, Ivan knew Volkyev was aware of it. Aware, and unimpressed.

"I would be very sorry if you left now," the prince finally confessed. "You may not believe this, but you are splendid company."

"Whereas you, feckless human, are more trouble and danger than you're worth," the wolf-king sniffed. "All the same, the more I consider this situation, the more it looks as though some unseen force of destiny is pushing us along. My curiosity has awakened. Therefore, I will take you to the Kingdom of Ushkazan, Ivan-Tsarevitch; you only get to have one death in each lifetime.

"But this time, you must listen to what I say!"


	2. Part Two

  
Part Two (7,190 words)

_"Whatever you do, don't touch the bridle or halter!"_

As Ivan-Tsarevitch was forced to his knees in front of Ushkar Khan, the price for forgetfulness, he wished there had been some sort of trick so he could palm the blame onto King Volkyev for being vague. He had ridden horses all his life---skittish, easily spooked ones at that, the most high-strung in his father's stables. It was ingrained in him that riding did not depend on tackle or saddlery. One simply tried to impress the horse with self-confidence and trustworthiness, then grabbed its mane and jumped on. There was no real need for bridles or halters since the horse would either be ridden, or throw off the rider. In this respect, horses weren't much different than wolf-kings.

Had Volkyev decided to throw Ivan off, however, it would've meant instant death, for when the wolf-king ran, it was on the leading edge of a storm, with thunder and lightning in his wake. They rode so high above the earth, that towns looked like toys, and fields were tiny squares of patchwork slashed into the great forests.

Yet the white charger's bridle had been this marvellous creation of embossed leather, with feathers not unlike those in the Firebird Tapestry. Usually, such craftsmanship did not captivate the prince, but perhaps there was an extra magic in this piece. Before Ivan knew it, he had lifted it up to have a closer look, and a thousand invisible bells rang.

"Who are you? And before you die, why are you trying to steal my horse?" Ushkar Khan demanded to know, so Ivan-Tsarevitch told him.

Ushkar face and voice were hard and bitter at his words, as though he balanced on the knifepoint of rage. "I could repay your father's favour, Ivan-Tsarevitch."

The prince felt his heart sink.

"I could, but I won't. It is the Great Tsar with whom I have quarrelled, not his son." His voice rose to a shout, _"Even if his son violates the terms of our truce by breaking our peace!"_

Ivan now feared for his life. His muscles held so much tension, they started to twitch.

The Khan's voice returned to calm.

"How fortunate for you that---because of my love for the Tsar's half-sister---I refuse to share his tyranny. In fact, I will give you the horse and his bridle as a gift--" Ivan finally expelled the breath he had held for too long "--on one condition."

Not a rustle or murmur broke the silence and stillness amongst the Khan's men as everyone awaited his orders.

"My beloved Irena has been held prisoner for many long years by Khoschei the Immortal in the Land Between Night and Dawn. I cannot save her without forsaking my country and the one duty which I now hold sacred about all others, my people. Slay Khoschei, Ivan-Tsarevitch, and bring her to me. Since she was stolen from me, I have not had a night of peace."

"I will!" Ivan-Tsarevitch was stirred to cry. He blushed at his outburst.

The king was startled. He saw the embarrassment that spread across the young man's face and chuckled. "You _will,_ will you? In case you think this is a gesture of my goodwill, consider this: many a hero has died at the Immortal's hands and he can deliver death more painfully than anyone on earth."

Ivan-Tsarevitch told himself he was not afraid. Ushkar Khan tempered his words. "Yet if you bring her to me alive and unharmed, you shall have my everlasting allegiance, and for your sake, my quarrel with your father shall be forgotten---unless he should choose to resume it. Be off with you!"

Ivan-Tsarevitch promptly removed himself.

It was nearly dawn when he made it back to the aspen grove where he had agreed to meet Volkyev. The wolf stared at him for a long time before he finally said, "Your luck would confound the very angels of retribution. What is it you have to retrieve this time, Ivan-Tsarevitch?"

"Ushkar's bride, my aunt Irena." The prince could barely look back at him. He stood with his hands in his pockets, kicking a stone on the ground, like a kid. "From some joker named Khoschei the Imbecile, in some place called the Kingdom between Night and Dawn."

"Khoschei the Immortal," Volkyev's voice was bone-dry.

Ivan mumbled something.

"You can't do this alone. Especially this. It is a feat that exceeds even Konstantin's claims on my goodwill."

Ivan sank into a crouch, his head bowed in despair, his confusion binding him. Something about the wolf-king made him want to emulate the creature, but also to rebel. He was drawn to Volkyev's sense of integrity and honour, his fierce warrior's pride, but these came with a paternalism that drove him wild with resistance.

Strangely, the same feelings came up when Ivan considered his loyalty toward Konstantin-Tsarevitch, which far surpassed any sense of duty that he felt toward the Great Tsar, and was completely lacking in his relationship with Naslednyev-Tsarevitch. He was loyal to Konstantin because he trusted him, because Konstantin had proven that he was not a petty man, and because by directing Ivan toward Stefan Volkyev, he had shown that he cared. To Tsar Vasilyi, Ivan was a nuisance; to Naslednyev, an impediment. Only Konstantin seemed to---not be _happy_ exactly; Konstantin was never so lighthearted---but to hold some slight faith that Ivan would grow into the sort of man who would justify the support and help he'd been given. Hence Konstantin was the only one with a modicum of power to temper Ivan.

With Volkyev, there was less of a desire for Ivan to prove himself. What did Ivan want from the wolf-king?

He looked at Volkyev. "Say, I'm curious; what claim does my brother have over you anyway?"

"Every year, the Great Tsar hosts a wolf hunt. Konstantin-Tsarevitch came across my cubs alone in their den, yet spared their lives."

Images flooded into Ivan-Tsarevitch's mind: the men on foot and on horseback in their red coats and fur hats, gathering in the meadow before the hunt, throwing off the early morning's chill with folksongs and flagons of hot spiced wine. "I remember this. I think I was there."

"I know," the wolf-king said.

Bounty had been set upon each pelt. The din of hounds baying made Ivan think of the lamentation of war. Konstantin had crawled under the roots of the mightiest tree in the forest from which whimpering rose, only to crawl back out and insist there was nothing to be found, even as a loud yip made a lie out of his words.

The Master of the Hunt had looked insulted and fully prepared to pursue the matter, when Ivan intervened. He took hold of the older man's elbow, "I'm sure you can lead us to fiercer prey."

"Small cubs grow, your highness," the Master had protested.

"And brave men cannot be satisfied to go after creatures which are unable to defend themselves." Konstantin ended the discussion once and for all.

"I was hidden in the shadows," Volkyev said. "I saw and heard all of it. What is not so easy to explain is the force which held your brother's hand."

"Or why Konstantin deflected the return of his favour to me." Ivan said, as though he had had played no part in the story.

"Or that common destiny which has wound all of us together."

"I fully meant to follow your instructions to the letter." Ivan brought them back to the present.

"Yet how readily you were distracted," Volkyev agreed. "Your heart isn't in this, that's easy to see. You've been to the front lines, Ivan-Tsarevitch, during the Great Tsar's wars. In battle, a distraction can cost you your life. You know this. Yet you allow it to happen. And with each failure, your peril grows."

"I know! I know, I_\---aagh!_ It is exactly as you say. My heart isn't fully into this. I couldn't care less about the Tsarina's peaches. Why my father has to get so worked up about them--"

The wolf-king's ears twitched.

"Sshhh, we have company!" He leapt to his feet.

His nose traced double helixes in the air, trying to read a scent. Ivan-Tsarevitch carefully drew both blades, which sang in spite of his caution. His vision couldn't pierce the heavy blue shadows which filled the spaces between the Dalmatian-spotted poplars. Suddenly, Volkyev's hackles rose.

"Come out, human spy, and explain yourself," he growled. "Your presence is as clear to me as the lemons that purified your bathwater."

There was a rustle from bushes well beyond their hideaway.

"That's quite some _schnozz_ you've got there!" A mellow tenor voice called up.

Ivan squinted, but was unable to locate anything closer than the general direction.

"Who are you? And why are you following us?" he called.

The man who stepped forward was so handsome, with his fine, ivory, clean-shaven skin, and the sleek black shoulder-length hair, that Ivan immediately responded. Not even the prissy round copper-rimmed spectacles which covered the stranger's eyes made his appearance less appealing, since those eyes looked profound and full of secrets. He wore a half-smile, also secretive. Ivan wondered if they were pleasant secrets.

"Prince Ilya Ushkarevitch Irenov, at your service." The stranger gave a small bow. "My mother is Irena Galitzen."

"That would make us first cousins." Ivan's frown returned.

"This disappoints you," Ilya observed.

"Not at all. It's just that, until tonight, I didn't even know my father had another half-sister."

A reflection from the lightening sky swept across the surface of Prince Ilya's glasses, and hid his reaction. He looked like Ivan's type: smart, quick on the uptake, lean, handsome. Soon Ivan wondered if Ilya was agreeable in other ways. He had a nice trim body and carried himself gracefully. Ivan started imagining what those lips tasted like, what it felt like to run his fingers through that glossy hair, and how that firm, lean body would press against--

"If you are indeed the son of Ushkar Khan and the Princess Irena," Volkyev snarled, "why is it that your father sends his sworn enemy to fight against the Immortal and bring back his bride instead of his own offspring?"

"I am curious about that myself," the pale prince replied mildly. "Until only recently, I was abroad at university. I had assumed that the lack of news or correspondence was to keep her location safe from our enemies."

"Meaning my father," Ivan wasn't sure if he should feel offended.

Ilya did not respond.

"I smell a horse and provisions." The wolf-king sniffed. To the east, a few clouds were turning bright pink and orange. "You have prepared for a long journey."

"I had already made plans to leave in search of my mother before the auspicious occasion of Ivan-Tsarevitch's "audience" with my father interrupted me."

"Then your plans were made without Ushkar Khan's knowledge and consent, Prince Ilya?" Volkyev concluded. "Possibly even against his will?"

"Nothing so mysterious. My father was imprisoned at my birth and first learned about me only after my mother was stolen away by Khoschei. He came to visit once while I was at university in Kyev, but I have been told that my facial features bear a strong resemblance to my mother, and the sight provoked so much pain that he cut his visit short. No, he won't miss me."

"This does not explain why you are following us."

"I followed because I wondered what sort of man Ivan-Tsarevitch was." The calm of Ilya's voice was at odds with his message, "this son of my parents' tormentor who sneaks into my father's stables to steal horses. After listening to your conversation, I've learned that his heart isn't in this, and that he has only had bad luck. Poor Ivan!"

"Hey!" Ivan cried.

"This suits me fine. Run along home, Ivan-Tsarevitch_'kaya,_ and I shall rescue my own mother from Khoschei, thank you very much."

"I have no intention of running away."

"Really, it's okay. There is no need for you to place yourself in mortal peril on her account," the prince continued maddeningly. "I am quite capable of slaughtering demons and all their kith and kin."

"Be careful for what you wish, Prince Ilya," Volkyev growled. "It does you no credit to underestimate the imperial prince."

"Even though he hasn't achieved a single success to date?"

"Hey!"

"His Imperial Highness is a seasoned warrior."

Ivan was about to thank the wolf-king, when the expression on Volkyev's face stopped him short. Was that a grin? Was he being facetious?

"Is that so?" Ilya cleared his throat. "Which campaigns? Which battles?"

Ivan suddenly felt reluctant to answer. With his luck, Prince Ilya would actually know about the battle that resulted in his so-called Great Victory, since he looked like the educated sort of guy who couldn't be trusted not to read the papers. Court flunkeys, anxious to present the turkey-shoot in Crimea in a more promising light, had foisted the conquering hero role upon Ivan, not that he had objected all that vocally, especially when trying to wheedle favours from Konstantin.

He barely restrained himself from blurting "I've heard that wolf-skins make especially nice bathmats" and insulting King Volkyev past endurance. Instead, Ivan plastered on his own somewhat tense smile. "Look, instead of wasting our time on this, can't we just concentrate on getting your mother back? Wouldn't you say we have a better chance for success if we worked together?"

"No, I wouldn't actually, since just a few minutes ago, you said and I quote, _"My heart isn't fully into this. I couldn't care less about the Tsarina's peaches. Why my father has to get so worked up about them--"_ Explain to me why I should choose to throw my fortunes in with the likes of you?"

"Fine!" Ivan-Tsarevitch snapped. "If that's your decision, it makes no difference to me. It's true that a bunch of fruit does not give me all that much --- _motive_ for risking life and limb. But tonight for the first time, I've learned about an aunt and cousin I never knew, and I've been given a chance to turn bad blood and grudges into allegiances and friendship, and that's an entirely different matter."

His answer seemed to strike something at Ilya's core. The man's eyes flew open.

"You aren't entirely without charm or skills of persuasion," he said, somewhat mollified.

"And you are incorrect if you think that you can rescue Princess Irena without our help," Volkyev threw in. "Unless you already know how to get to the Kingdom between Night and Dawn."

Ilya nodded.

"Haven't the foggiest," he admitted.

"Or how to slay an Immortal?"

"Nope, I can't recall that ever coming up before," Ilya nodded again, leaving Ivan to wonder if the confusing man shook his head when he wanted to signify yes.

"So, basically, you haven't got a plan."

"Winging it as I go along. So far it seems to be working splendidly." Prince Ilya tilted his head and stroked his chin. "I couldn't say I'd ever met a talking wolf before today either; at least not one who ever spoke to me."

Ivan suddenly found himself staring at the corner of his cousin's mouth. Ilya's cheeks were smooth. Ivan wondered if they would feel cool under the lips, or if the rest of his body was so smooth and hairless. This little thought entertained him so long, he didn't even notice that his cousin and Volkyev had long since stopped talking and were now staring at him. That's when he realized that he was sporting a huge, unmistakeably obvious, lop-sided grin.

"So," he clapped his hands together and gave them a vigorous rub. "Have we decided?"

When Volkyev had explained that Ilya's horse would never be able to make the journey, Ivan's newfound cousin insisted on riding behind him. Ivan gave up trying to hold a conversation over his shoulder. They couldn't speak over the sound of rushing wind and thunder anyway. Moreover, the expression on Ilya's face never changed; the little half-smile which Ivan had found so attractive at first, now started to creep him out. Ivan couldn't tell if Ilya was pleased, annoyed, bored or just not even human.

Volkyev was a big wolf, but Ivan found the fit tight all the same and had to ignore the way Ilya rocked up against him as the wolf-king ran, or the feeling of Ilya's hands on his waist. It wasn't that he minded the sensations---not at all! They were happy-making to a fault, the fault being that he couldn't do anything about them; so the fun of it drove him to distraction.

Whenever they stopped, Ilya and Volkyev were more interested in conversing with each other. The words "no, thank you" became the most common refrain Ivan heard, whether in rejection of swigs from his flask of vodka, or his attempts to rouse interest in a sing-along.

By day, they soared over taiga, snow-covered mountains, and lakes the size of inland seas. At night, they made their beds where they could best find shelter, or slept under the stars.

Once in an area of rugged highlands, where wild sheep vied for blades of scrubby grass, they were caught in a downpour.

As Ilya wrung out his sopping clothes, he said, "Now I know what the saying "home is where you hang your hat" means."

"Except, in this case, our hats are our homes---heh-heh! _Notre chapeaux est notre chateaux,"_ said Ivan who, like all Russian aristocracy, spoke perfect French, which didn't mean he had anything worth saying in either language.

Ilya and Volkyev stared.

"I think I spotted some nice grouse by the eastern promontory," Volkyev finally said.

"That will go nicely with some sage and juniper berries." Ilya started foraging for herbs.

Volkyev had more talent for hunting than Ivan, and Ilya was better at cooking. Once or twice, along some river banks, Ivan tried his hands at fishing, but the only thing he caught was a sturgeon, and the appearance of it so alarmed him, that he promptly let out a yell and threw the thing back into the water. A crow that had watched his progress from the screens of silvery willows lining the bank flew off with a cackle that sounded suspiciously like laughing. Fishing was solitary work, except for the crows which always seemed to follow him everywhere. The swing between loneliness and wariness grew too much for the sociable young prince. He wondered if Konstantin had been right about a sinister link between them and Naslednyev. It felt like the creatures would do him an ill-turn if they could, not that they needed to; he seemed to bring enough misfortune upon him without their help. Still, he wouldn't put it past them to give his misfortunes just that little extra push which would tip them into full-blown calamity.

There wasn't much left for Ivan to do except collect firewood and listen to discussions about things he couldn't understand. They hinted at realities and possibilities beyond those he had ever imagined---possibilities that not only expanded his mind, but rolled it in stardust and the music of the spheres, sending shimmers down his spine. It was as though, through the sheer clarity and refinement of his companions' minds, he was becoming a better man, a more compassionate, intelligent, and powerful person. Ivan became very good at quietly tending the fires so he could listen.

Not that he fared well even with subjects that he understood, like warfare.

"I think our armies have a great deal to learn from the Ottomans, especially the Mameluke divisions," he once ventured, only to have Ilya cut him off with a curt, "What is the point of exchanging one set of chest-thumpers for another?"

"I always thought the point was to win," Ivan proceeded cautiously.

"True coercion lies along the path of uniting hearts and minds behind a common objective, and to do that one needs ideals."

In the past, at this point, Ivan would've taken himself away to nurse his wounded ego but, even setting aside the short supply of drink and whores, he felt an unusual desire to improve himself, to scour away his imperfections. This was a mystery, since it wasn't inspired by anything like petting; neither Ilya, nor Volkyev showed any signs of returning his infatuation---That wasn't entirely true; Ivan could've sworn the other prince kept sneaking peeks at him when he undressed to bathe in various rivers along the way, but everytime he thought he felt the burn of those green eyes and turned to look, there was nothing to be seen. So he dismissed it as wishful thinking. Since Volkyev had also stopped looking, Ivan wasn't getting his ego stroked anywhere.

He took to slipping away after the others fell asleep, to practice his sword forms, weaving, slashing, thrusting and parrying, until his movements became as graceful as a dancer, his steps as sure as an acrobat, and his strikes clean and strong.

One night, he noticed Ilya and Volkyev watching him.

"How long have you been standing there?" His face bloomed bright red.

Ilya stood with his back to a tree, arms crossed. He shrugged and stepped forward. "Do you always practice with live swords?"

"Only when I need to stay sharp," Ivan swept his blades back into their scabbards.

"It's also unusual to see someone fight two-handed---long swords, too."

Ivan had no response.

"I would've thought that the curved blades of sabres or cutlasses would be a better choice for a two-fisted style," Ilya continued. "You must be a very confident fighter."

"I've always been equally strong in either direction." Ivan agreed.

"What do you think, Stefan?" Prince Ilya asked the wolf-king. "Shall we test him?"

"Provided the blades stay sheathed," Volkyev transformed into his human shape. Ivan barely had time to unbuckle his sash and slip off the scabbards before the others set upon him.

He fought well, and if it had been a one-on-one fight, he might have held his own. Against the pair of them, both fine swordfighters in their own rights, he could only manage a defensive style. Even sheathed blades can wound, and Ivan certainly received his share of blows. Yet when he fell, he rolled and jumped back up. Every time the tip of the weapon caught him in the ribs, he swivelled away. Whenever a sword was knocked out of his hands, he incorporated pebbles, larger rocks or branches into his defense.

Volkyev couldn't resist shouting out a steady critique.

"You signal your deflections by flipping out your elbows." The wolf-king had a very sinuous fighting style, his body curling and weaving like a snake. Ivan found it almost impossible to predict where his blows were going to come from. "Watch your footwork; it's too easy to pull you off-balance. Let the energy coil up through your legs, through your solar plexus and chest, and out your shoulders and arms. If you try to slash using only the motion of your arm and wrist, it's too easy to knock your swords away."

Ilya, thankfully, did not say a word. His movements were so clean and spare, not a motion wasted, his feet steadily grinding the fragrant forest herbs beneath them into green paste against the damp soil. Ivan was hard-pressed to deflect those strong slices and the paths they took required him to bend more frequently at the knees, which wore on his endurance. Within twenty minutes, even though they fought in the shadows of twilight when the air had grown cool, Ivan was panting and sweating, whereas Ilya had not even broken a sweat.

Finally Ivan broke through some sort of inner barrier and it felt as though gravity had no power to tie him to the earth. Everything grew light and easy. His adversaries immediately saw the change. Ilya let out a cry of sheer joy and doubled the speed and power of his strikes. Volkyev shifted his sword from his right to his stronger left-hand side. Ivan's body no longer felt like his, but as though it was being moved by some greater power which could foresee and counter the blows. He felt like he was moving in the eye of a cyclone, with all the force projected on the periphery of his reach, while in the center he remained calm and still.

Then, it happened. He leapt onto a large fallen log in order to gain a higher ground. A few seconds later, Volkyev and Ilya followed, but the log was rotten through its core, and the creaking shell could not support them all. It cracked and splintered and they tumbled backwards, rolling and grunting, clouds of pungent spores erupting around them, until they landed, all three sneezing and with limbs tangled, in a heap within a soft hollow of forest duff.

Ivan's face was _smoosh_ed against some stalks of wild angelica, so he couldn't see how they had ended up. He could feel that his hips were sprawled over someone else's pelvis, and that the other person's chest and stomach lay heavy across the lumbar region of his back, pinning him down. He struggled a moment or two and managed to lift his face away from the scratchy herb long enough to mumble, "I surrender!"---after which, he started to laugh.

The musical tenor of Prince Ilya's laugh soon chimed in, and after they rolled and pulled apart enough that Ivan could glance over where he noticed that even Volkyev wore a grin. For awhile, they just lay trying to catch their breath and slow their pulses, the adrenaline and other hormones leaving them high and satisfied.

For Ivan, who hadn't received so much as a smile, let alone an affectionate word in nearly a month, it was heaven. He could feel the warmth of his companions' bodies next to his, still heaving and panting with the force of their exertions. He kind of wished they could just lie like this all night, now that his body was calming and his mind had quietened, and he started to feel sleepy and relaxed. Another stray wish was that they could curl up around each other and lace their feet and legs together. Maybe that would lead to tiny, nibbling kisses, which might deepen and hands running over each others'---Prince Ilya was the first to pull away.

"So?" he suddenly asked Volkyev. "Do you think we stand a chance?"

The wolf-king looked thoughtful. "If it were a matter of skill alone, I would say "yes, most definitely" but much depends on luck."

"And if we don't believe in luck?"

"Beliefs are irrelevant." Volkyev shrugged, and turned back into his wolf-form.

With a sigh, Ivan started to get up. He was stopped dead, when he felt a hand brush his shoulder. Startled, he looked up into Prince Ilya's face. The man's still wore his little half-smile, but there was a new depth to his eyes which Ivan had never seen before. Then Ilya walked away as though they had not just shared some sort of moment, and Ivan was left to sort out the confusion of his thoughts.

Three days later, they halted within an especially dark section of the forest. Ivan and Ilya spilled off the wolf-king's back, their muscles stiffened from the long ride.

"We are now in a land where very few humans stray, and even fewer leave, the woods belonging to Baba Yaga the Wicked." Volkyev explained. "Here, you must listen to everything she commands of you, Ivan-Tsarevitch, or it won't just be your life which you will lose."

"Excuse me, and not to be a stick-in-the-mud, but why must it be him?" Ilya complained. "Wouldn't it be less dangerous if I was the one to deal with the witch? I am more rational."

"Whoa! Where do you get off--?"

"Please, Ivan-Tsarevitch, a man who says with utter conviction that the rotation of the planet on its axis must be due to presence of minotaurs running inside along the inside of the earth's crust, like mice on an exercise wheel, is not the sort of scientific thinker needed to combat the superstition upon which Baba Yaga's powers are obviously founded," Ilya managed to say in one breath.

Before their little combat session, Ivan would've been downright offended by this, but he had accepted that Ilya had a keener intellect, and also knew that it didn't necessarily mean he was a better warrior. He had funny ideas about ideals, which Ivan knew from direct experience were more often found in justifying and prolonging aggression, than in the fight itself. Now he would've thought it was kind of cute, if they weren't pressed by their mission. "That was a joke."

The prince of Ushkara pushed his glasses up his nose. "It certainly was."

"Hey!" Ivan objected.

"Don't worry, Prince Ilya." Volkyev interrupted, calmly. "If Ivan-Tsarevitch fails again, you can step in and take his place since there won't be enough left of him to get in your way. There's a good chance Baba Yaga might eat him instead of help him anyway."

"Hey!" Ivan objected more loudly.

"In fact, it's probably best if you sit this one out."

"You make a compelling argument." Prince Ilya agreed.

"HEY!"

Volkyev started padding his way through the forest. They walked together in silence, ignoring the squawking of jays, until they came to the edge of a clearing.

"This is where we must leave you, Ivan-Tsarevitch," the wolf-king stopped. "Heed my words. If you want to find Irena Galitzen or leave this place alive, you must not treat this lightly. You must listen carefully to Baba Yaga and obey her every command, without hesitation. You must not lose your focus."

Ivan strode into the meadow. He had been raised on stories of Baba Yaga the Wicked, but nowhere could he see starving cats, or mistreated dogs, or gates with hinges that needed oiling. Since these were the creatures with which, legends said, the grandmother witch not only surrounded herself, but were the very entities which offered up means for escape, their absence made Ivan especially nervous.

He saw the hut made of bones and bark, with its thickly thatched roof of moss, mushrooms and lichens. It was kind of hard to miss as it pelted around the clearing on a pair of monstrous chicken feet. Ivan could not tell where the entrance was, so he tried the old standby: "Little house, little house, show your front to me and your back to the woods."

The hut stopped spinning. It settled onto its chicken feet and three small stairs unfolded before Ivan-Tsarevitch, as though beckoning him to climb. He raised his hand to knock at the door, when it suddenly opened and a great cloud of smoke poured out. When it cleared and Ivan stopped coughing, he found himself looking at someone who wasn't a crone at all. Baba Yaga was gorgeous, in a very experienced middle-aged woman sort of way. She had long, silky black hair, huge brown eyes and even huger … a see-through blouse and filmy harem pants that instantly hypnotized the prince.

The witch took one look at him and cracked up.

"If you've made it this far, Ivan-Tsarevitch, it is because you have more luck than brains. Yes, I will help you, but you will have to be brave. Tell the other village idiots to stop lurking in the woods and join us."

Ivan opened his lips to ask how she knew these things, but remembering his past failures and Volkyev's words of caution, he turned and whistled for the others instead. Before long, Ilya and the wolf-king trotted up, looking sheepish.

Baba Yaga gave a whistle of her own, and all sorts of misbegotten creatures started pouring out of the cracks and corners of her hut: satyrs, fauns, cockatrices, winged serpents and horned frogs and other phantasmagorical freaks of nature. They lit a fire in the hearth and set upon it a huge cauldron filled with magical waters. Others brought Baba Yaga herbs, strange powders, stones, bones and dried things that Ivan didn't want to feel too curious about, and the witch threw them into the pot. Oddly coloured lights and noises resounded within the mixture, which she stirred with the great pestle she used to grind bones. Strange incantations flew from her lips like bats from old barns.

When the potion acquired a certain luminosity, she stopped stirring and wiped her hands on her harem pants.

"Now, Ivan-Tsarevitch, we come to the subject of payment."

"Payment?"

"Of course. You didn't think this was all going to be given to you for free, did you?"

"I had kinda hoped." The prince scratched the back of his head.

"Aw, little man, a demiurge has to make her living somehow," she laughed at her own joke. "Okay, maybe not … but magic has a funny way of not being properly activated when personal sacrifices have not been paid. I have an idea: how about those two? That fine-looking wolf-king?---His human form is so lovely, isn't it? I could sink a tooth in that. And that pretty boy who's been smacking you down since he came on the scene. He's a tasty-looking morsel, if I do say so."

All three males let out strangled chokes of mixed indignation, panic and arousal.

"I can't give you my friends," Ivan said. "They aren't mine to give."

"Are you sure about that? You don't think you're underestimating your appeal just a _wee little itsy-bitsy?"_

He stared at her. "Positive."

"Ivan-ivan-ivanoff," Baba Yaga let out an exaggerated sigh. "You can't give me your firstborn, dirty boy, since it's already been and gone."

"Hunh?"

"What, you didn't know?---And you're actually surprised?---The way you've tossed around your wild oats?" Baba Yaga developed a sudden interest in her manicure.

"How about my signet ring?" Ivan-Tsarevitch held out his greatest treasure, the symbol of his place in the line of his ancestors. It was a work of art. "It would be like giving you the power of my coronet."

"Very lovely!" She sniffed. "I've actually acquired quite a collection of signet rings over the years though. Somewhere in my junk drawer, I'm sure old King Solomon's Seal is even knocking about. Hell, I'm more powerful than any Tsar that ever lived, so what do I need your tiara for? You will have to do better than that."

"I haven't got anything else," Ivan chewed on his lip, thinking. She shot him a sceptical, sidelong glance, which sharpened his breath. No, she couldn't possibly mean-- "The only other things I have are my swords, and I will need them if I'm to fight Khoschei."

Baba Yaga's eyes glittered. "You could always let me have your companions instead."

"How about just _one_ of my swords?" Ivan quickly offered. "That way you get paid and I still have a means of attacking Khoschei."

"But then you're breaking up the matched set! And it's really rare to find a swordsman who can fight with both hands, in whom the male and female are equally poised. And now you want to tip that special balance in favour of one polarity? That isn't just _not_ progressive, Ivan-Tsarevitch, it's downright backwards.

"Listen, how about you give me one of your swords and one of your companions. Your cousin?" She reached over and pulled Prince Ilya toward her, possessively. Ilya looked like she had just handed him a fat, wet, wriggling pocketful of leeches. "You barely know him. He's the son of your father's enemy. He's never done anything for you."

Baba Yaga grabbed Ilya's chin, squeezing his lower lip between her fingers and shaking it, as though he was a big baby. The homicidal intent which bloomed in Ilya's face at this sent shivers up Ivan's spine. "This naughty _schnookums_ even stole away your fine new furry, didn't he? No big loss."

Ivan's face flushed at her jibes. He hated how Ilya could make him feel stupid and awkward. He hated how he was the only one in their little group who seemed to like sex, not to mention the idea of having sex with one, or the other, or---hell, he wasn't picky!---both of them. He hated how the prince and the wolf-king would get so wrapped up in talking and listening to each other, it was as though he didn't exist. But most of all, he hated how Baba Yaga had found his envious and fear-filled weak point and wormed it open for everyone to see---even if they had already seen it and, mostly, had the good manners not to clobber his ego with it all the time. Bad enough that everyone was so aware of his pathetic ridiculousness, why did she have to shine a spotlight on it?

"No, let him go! You may have my swords." The imperial prince unbuckled them, and presented her with their hilts. "Take them, they're yours."

"Are you sure, Ivan-Tsarevitch?" Baba Yaga slid a finger onto the fine golden detailing.

He dropped to one knee, "Please, my lady!"

"Very well, I accept." She grasped them and they disappeared with a flash of light."And since you were so reasonable about it, I will let you in on a little secret. Those crows that have been tailing you are no servants of mine."

"Hunh? Then whose--?" He started to ask, but she interrupted him with a crow-like cackle. "Now then, there's only one thing left to do."

"What's that?" Ivan was filled with dread.

"Since you're practically on the floor, do you mind bending over and blowing on the fire?"

Ivan bent over and blew. The flames leapt to the ceiling with a roar. Within seconds, the brew began to hiss and boil.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Baba Yaga turned to Ivan. "Take off your clothes and hop in."

Ivan slowly started peeling off his gear. He shot panicky looks over at Volkyev and Ilya, who tried to look calm, and only succeeded in looking stony.

"Come on, don't be shy!"

Ivan stripped down. In spite of the fact that it glowed green and blue, the mess that boiled in the cauldron was sluggish and thick like a mud bath, with unspeakable lumps of things, including at least one chicken foot, floating around in its brownish-black gelatinous goo. He swallowed hard. He had always thought he would either die on the battlefield, in some drunken brawl in defence of a pretty lady, or peacefully, in the arms of a lover. Meeting his end in a cooking pot like a Muscovite Captain Cook was not his idea of a noble death.

Baba Yaga was leering at him. He wouldn't put it past her to play such a mean trick. On the other hand, King Volkyev had cautioned him to obey her without hesitation, and here he was hesitating. It was possible that there was only a small window of opportunity to acquire whatever power being boiled in that cauldron would bestow, and here he was wasting it. Ivan made the sign of the cross---more for luck, than piety---and hopped.

It didn't boil him alive into an Ivan-stew after all. He found himself alone, floating in the cool, clean water of a forest lake. In the middle of the lake was a tiny islet covered with moss and grasses. He caught a gleam, swam over and parted the sedge. Sticking out of the rock was a marvellous sword, sharper and better forged than any he had ever seen. Ivan grasped the hilt with both hands and withdrew the blade in one sweep. It was so large, it required two hands to wield. Power surged up through his feet out his arms and the top of his head, and back down again---several times, as though re-creating him into another form. Enhanced by this power, he felt stronger and more fit than he had dreamed possible---perhaps beyond measure.

As soon as he pulled the blade free, Ivan-Tsarevitch discovered that the lake had disappeared and he was standing in the forest. His comrades were walking toward him, Volkyev carrying his clothing in his fangs.

Volkyev set the rainment down and said, "You did well, Ivan-Tsarevitch. You're still alive and so are we. You have a magical sword, which is just as well, since no blade forged by human hands could ever prevail against Khoschei. It also appears that the cauldron was the portal to the Land between Night and Dawn. So that saves us time waiting for the next new moon to complete this next stretch of our journey."

"She made us jump in after you," Ilya explained. As he stared at Ivan, a new fire seemed to kindle behind his glasses. "Only she didn't make us take off our clothes first."

Ivan had forgotten he was naked.

"Nice sword," Ilya remarked.

"My blade is over here." Ivan lifted his new blade and waved hello with it, but Ilya didn't seem remotely interested. The prince continued to stare, until Ivan thought he'd better do something before he got an "involuntary physiological response" and got teased to everlasting hell ever after for it. He set the blade down and started to dress.

"All I got was this set of kitchen knives." Ilya pulled two lethal blades from a pair of leather sheaths strapped to his belt. "If I had taken off my clothes, do you suppose she would've given me a sword, too?" Light played off their edges. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I've always been more of a hand-to-hand kind of guy."

"They're impressive enough." Ivan slipped on his pants, trying not to blush while the others stared at him so openly, and surprising himself that something as harmless as frank staring could throw him for such a loop. Why were they gawking? "I wouldn't want to be at the wrong end of them."

"Never fear, Ivan-Tsarevitch," Prince Ilya smiled. "Not after what you did today."

And that kind of took Ivan's breath away.

"Are we ready, gentlemen?" King Volkyev asked.

Ivan-Tsarevitch looked around at the glade where they stood. Everything had turned golden with the light of the setting sun. He breathed in the fresh air, sweetened with grass and wildflowers, and wondered if it would be the last time he ever saw the sunset.

"I'm ready," he said, climbing onto the wolf's back. This time, it felt as though Prince Ilya was cinched up against him more closely than ever, or perhaps Ivan's unrequited desires had grown to such an extent that he had become acutely conscious of the other's every breath, every movement---electrified by every inadvertent brush of their bodies. The ride was pure torture. It was all Ivan could do not to sink back against the other man. As they tore across the sky, thunderstorms coiling in their wake, he couldn't help but wonder what was hidden in Prince Ilya's heart.


	3. Part Three

  
Part Three (6,539 words)

All too soon they circled over the crest of jagged mountaintops and the castle of Khoschei swept below them like the petrified bones of an ancient leviathan. Horns brayed and warning bells resounded over the barren stones of the valley. A terrible flurry of ant colony busyness swarmed out of the gates and over the walls as goblins and imps rushed to guard them.

Volkyev alit before the keep. Both princes leapt to their feet and unsheathed their weapons. Ivan's new sword required him to fight with both hands upon the hilt, an unusual style for him, yet one which, with a few passes of the blade, felt comfortable and increased the strength and speed of his strokes. It was just light enough that he could switch to a single hand in order to increase his mobility, but he could tell from the heft and weight that it was for short sallies only. Both hands on the blade required all the disparate and conflicting elements of his personality fused and harmonious for this one purpose, to slay Khoschei. He felt charged.

Khoschei rode out on a fierce black Hanoverian stallion modified by demon magic. Its legs appeared to be covered with lizard scales. Volkyev's hackles rose at the sight.

"I am Ivan-Tsarevitch, and I am here for Irena Galitzen," the third son of the Great Tsar announced, ready for all possibilities.

Khoschei laughed. "You call yourself a warrior and the son of a Tsar, but you are so poor that you cannot afford a horse. How do you expect to fight me?"

"Erm…" Ivan couldn't argue with that.

"Have you forgotten?" Stefan Volkyev whispered to Ivan-Tsarevitch. "I am a shapeshifter."

Within seconds, the wolf-king appeared as a formidable battle-charger. His white fur was now short, but his red eyes still gleamed and fangs were still sharp. Puffs of smoke bloomed from his maw as he champed and pawed the ground, power surging through every sinew. As Ivan-Tsarevitch mounted him, Khoschei stopped laughing.

The demon gave a loud yell, and his hobgoblins swept up, ready to jump upon the trio.

"This is where I come in," Prince Ilya's strange little half-smile now scared the hell out of Ivan-Tsarevitch. Within seconds, he cut through the hordes like a scythe through wheat fields. He fought smoothly, as though his body was floating. His enemies were too clumsy, stupid and slow to keep up. Once Ivan had shaken off his surprise and admiration, he was able to set aside his concern, confident that Ilya could handle so many opponents on his own. This freed Ivan to focus completely on his own foe.

The battle began.

Khoschei and Ivan charged at each other, and the shock of their collision caused the earth to buckle. Time and time again, they charged and sliced at each other with their swords. Yet no matter how much strength he used, the Tsar's son was unable to unseat the demon. Every time, blade met blade and deflected the blow.

Khoschei began to taunt him. "Just because you were given a magic blade, did you believe that automatically conferred the skill to wield it upon you? Did you assume that Baba Yaga was doing you a favour? That she was on your side?"

Since Ivan could feel the power of the earth flowing up from his feet, distributing strength and energy equally through his body and out through the live blade, Khoschei's first attempts to plant suspicions in him fell aside harmlessly.

The prince dropped low over Volkyev and cross-sliced a trough through Khoschei's thigh. Blood spurted from the wound, but just as quickly congealed. Something magical was sealing his blood, keeping his organs, arteries and veins whole, if not quite intact.

"Why are you risking your life to retrieve another man's wife anyway?" Khoschei feinted and then counter-parried. "Rescuing the bride of your father's enemy is hardly the way to court his forgiveness."

This time, Khoschei's words sailed home. Ivan-Tsarevitch had not thought about how the Great Tsar Vasilyi would react to Irena Galitzen's rescue. Doubt slowed him. He couldn't understand why his father had objected to the union between her and Ushkar Khan in the first place.

"Because he's a heathen, little princeling!" Khoschei lunged, proving that he could read Ivan's thoughts. His sword caught the edge of the young man's sleeve and ripped across his forearm. "Didn't you know that? How could a member of the royal family and a pillar of the Orthodox Church marry the heretic; why do you think your father went to war in the first place?"

"Be careful, Ivan-Tsarevitch!" King Volkyev swerved and carried his rider a safe distance just in time. "Don't allow him to break your focus."

It was a shallow cut. Ivan tied his torn sleeve around his arm and staved the bleeding.

"It makes no difference to me what Ushkar Khan believes or who he marries." His cry carried over the howling goblins and the barren valley, echoing off the stones. "And when I've killed you and neutralized the conflict between our house and his, it will cease to trouble the Great Tsar as well."

"Are you so sure?" The demon's eyes narrowed. Ivan met the charge directly. Khoschei appeared to miss that it was the conflict between Ushkar Khan and Tsar Vasilyi which didn't matter. The third prince was not about to fight other unknown battles. He would meet the future only if it rose to challenge him. He was in this place, at this time fighting Khoschei, and he intended to win, an ever-renewing source of conviction and fortitude. He felt he could fight with an old gardening trowel and win.

After about the tenth fruitless rally, the pair broke off, panting and soaked with perspiration, ready to reconsider their strategies. Ivan could tell that the wounds he had marked across Khoschei were impeding the Immortal. The magical blade managed to cut him many times, but none of the cuts seemed to affect him enough to give Ivan supremacy. Clearly, the demon was drawing upon some supernatural source of power, but what that was, Ivan had no idea.

"Damn him!" Ivan told Volkyev. "If this keeps up, he's going to wear me down."

"The next charge will be different," the wolf-king promised.

When Ivan and Khoschei rode at each other again, Volkyev changed back into wolf shape at the moment of impact, leapt onto the neck of Khoschei's stallion, and tore out its throat. Demon and prince tumbled to the ground.

In retaliation, a sharp kick from Khoschei sent the wolf-king plummeting over the side of the wall.

"Volkyev!" Ivan cried out, catching a glimpse of his friend in human form, hanging by one hand from a torn grate above the jagged rocks. He was filled with anguish, wondering if Volkyev was injured or needed his help, but he couldn't fly to his side with Khoschei's advance.

Even with the lizard horse and the wolf-king out of the way, they were matched. Blows fell with thunderous shocks.

"I see what is driving you," the Immortal started to laugh. "It isn't your father's heart that you're trying to win. You're after the mutt and the bastard, your comrades."

Ivan-Tsarevitch continued to parry his strikes. He could tell that Prince Ilya, in the midst of his own battle, was listening intently.

"I've never kept that a secret," he admitted. "Did you think it would trip me up?"

A flash of white on the castle's balustrades moved across the corner of Ivan's eye, and sent flurries of raucous crows over the fields. Ivan pushed the fight around so that he could glance up, and for the first time, beheld Irena Galitzen. The rumours of her beauty were true. Ivan saw where Ilya's fine features came from. He didn't have time to dwell on it, however.

"No, I didn't think it would." An unexpected parry from Khoschei caught him under the ribs. "But even if you win, as that sort of man, you can kiss any hope of reconciliation with your family goodbye."

The demon's sword tore a hook-shaped line through his skin.

Ivan was only saved because he half-slipped beyond the sword's reach in gore from a disembowelled hobgoblin, a gift from Ilya. Ivan's cousin had taken out legions of evil fairies in a ridiculously short time. The skill and resolution required to accomplish this was beyond Ivan's imagination, although hundreds more goblins remained. Ivan's injury was so severe that it took all his breath to stand. He clutched at his wound, chest heaving.

"Mother!" He heard Ilya call out. He did not dare look, although it sounded as though the other prince was still engaged with goblin hordes. "Where does Khoschei keep his life force?"

Khoschei broke away with a hiss. "Your clever friend discovered my secret."

"Not such a big secret," Ivan grit through his teeth. "It's obvious a half-dead maggot like you would never be able to hold up under my attacks if you weren't reinforced by magic."

"Is that so? It hardly looks like you're in the position to be calling anyone else half-dead." Khoschei's foot whirled out and landed in Ivan's solar plexus. The third prince fell to his knees.

The demon laughed, an awful sound which evoked rusted iron rasps and ancient scars. He wheeled around with his other foot, catching Ivan under the jaw. Searing pain swept through the prince's body. Stars burst in the darkness behind his eyelids. The kick almost took his head off. Blood gushed into his mouth. Only by flying backward and rolling to an inch from the edge of the wall was Ivan able to keep his spine from snapping. All his sinews stretched to capacity, all his effort held his body together. The sword flew from his hand, clattering to a halt several feet away. He heard agonized shouts from Ilya, urging him to his feet, but it was all he could do stay conscious.

Khoschei's insane laughter goaded him. With Herculean effort, he lifted himself up to his hands and knees and started to crawl, inch by inch toward his sword.

"Where are you going, little boy?" the voice cooed. It was followed by another kick. His cheek scudded against the stones. Dust rose around him like fumes from an active caldera, scratching his eyes, coating his throat. He tried not to choke, not to let the water from his eyes show.

Khoschei then stomped directly upon Ivan's right hand, and ground his heel against the fingers. Ivan yelled while several bones snap. The ground swam before him.

"Aw! It looks like you won't be able to wield that big sword after all," the demon jeered. "Why don't I just use it to cut off your head?"

He reached over to seize Ivan's prize, the blade from Baba Yaga, when something caused him to stop in mid-reach. His eyes flew wide and his body whipped back upright, rigid and as though in recoil. He clutched his chest. Ivan couldn't see the cause, but it almost looked like the demon was suffering from a heart attack.

"Blackhearted bitch!" Khoschei hissed, wheeling around toward his castle.

From her balcony, Irena Galitzen waved.

"Looking for this, Khoschei?" In her hands was an egg that shone like gold. It was not made of gold, however, for whenever she squeezed it, Khoschei doubled over in agony.

The monster grit his teeth. He looked as though nothing would please him more than to take off Ivan's head in that moment, but that it would have to wait until he took off Irena's first. He fled into his castle.

"Mother!" Ilya shouted, surrounded by hobgoblins the size of mountain goats, unable to come to her aid.

Ivan took a deep breath and stumbled to his feet. He ignored the sensation of blood pounding in his skull, the steady thump of it in his ears, and collected his sword. With his last ounce of willpower, he set off in pursuit of the demon to finish the fight. Over a wide staircase choked with dead goblins, he spilled into the great hall.

Irena stood at the top of the stairs which led to the demon's throne, the egg held above her. Khoschei was on his knees at the base, his face ashen --- or more ashen than usual.

"I had guessed early on that you kept your heart in here," she cried. "How clever to place it in the egg of a firebird---a thing of such shining beauty, no one would ever think to look there for something so ugly and profane. If your body was damaged beyond recovery, all that you required was for the egg to be thrown into a fire for your body to be renewed as the phoenix burst free."

Khoschei stumbled toward her, his sword poised to strike. She tightened her fingers again, and he doubled over, shouting and cursing.

"There was never any point to breaking the egg as long as there weren't any warriors who could withstand you or your army. They were always overwhelmed before it got to that stage, and you would've just found another hiding place. It had to be you and the egg together." Irena set the egg on the ground in front of her foot. "This time, Khoschei, it will be you and this egg together."

"Stop it, you whore!" Khoschei howled, rolling to his feet and pelting toward her, ready to stab. Ivan raced toward him, raising his own sword for a killing slash.

"Watch me!" Irena lifted her foot and brought it down on the egg, shattering it into a million pieces. Ivan's sword sliced upper right to lower left, decapitating Khoschei on its downward sweep. Flames erupted from the eggshell fragments to disappear in the next moment, the embers winking out like dying stars. Khoschei's corpse lay for one brief instant before it, too, dissolved into dust. An unearthly scream filled the hall and whirled around it twice before the wind blew every trace away.

Ivan flicked the blood off his sword and, with a circular sweep, pushed it back into its scabbard. In that moment, a terrible clamour of voices which seemed only to be heard inwardly, with the mind's senses, grew still.

The demon's dying scream was replaced by the sound of thrumming rocks. It seemed as though the castle was held together only by the demon's power. Now that he was dead, its foundations began to rock. Stones tumbled from the ceiling.

"Irena Galitzen!" Prince Ivan shouted, reaching for her with the hand that was not injured. She rushed toward him and grasped it, her whole and healthy state leaving her in better condition to pull him, stumbling and lightheaded, after her while she finally made her escape. They were barely through the gate when the castle fell with a roar and a blinding cloud of pulverized rock, burying the last of Khoschei's goblin army.

When it cleared, four whitened figures stood blinking at each other. While Volkyev limped forward, Ilya, soaked beneath the rock-dust in the blood of innumerable goblins, exhaled first.

"My!" said he. "That was refreshing."

"I did my best to escape," Irena Galitzen kept up a fairly steady stream of chitchat from the moment they left Khoschei's domain until, at last, they circled the parapets of Ushkar Khan's magnificent city. "At first, I tried to slip out through the underground river, but they barred me in the upper levels. Then I tried to braid ropes from the bedding, but there was never enough fabric and my own hair never grew past my waist."

Most of the time, nobody could hear what she was saying since the usual wind and thunder at the wolf-king's progress across the firmament masked everything but the odd flutters of phrases and birds disoriented in their flight.

"Once I tried to knock out the guard with the warming pan, but goblin heads are ridiculously hard---and I don't think they ever actually carry their brains in them, so it's impossible to give them concussions."

What Ivan-Tsarevitch managed to catch sounded interesting enough to him that he strained to listen from his perch behind Prince Ilya.

"The attempt to tame eagle chicks in order that they would fly me away when they got bigger seemed like a good one, but then I overheard Khoschei planned to serve them to me in a stroganoff, so I had to shoo them away. Obviously, I needed some infantry support. Thanks so much for supplying it."

Ilya shot a look of amusement over his shoulder at Ivan. They had been officially demoted from champions to reinforcements.

That night, they stood upon the highest mountain peak in the Land between Night and Dawn. To the west, the Great Tsar's dominions lay at their feet, mountain ranges piled upon steppes, vast deserts, rivers the colour of milk in the moonlight snaking toward seas, forests so black they swallowed light, and the sparkling lights of great cities draped across the earth like necklaces. To the east, the ever-present approach of dawn had tinted the far horizon a soft pink but the land itself was fast enveloping itself in haze, as though withdrawing into dreams. They were so high that the curvature of the horizon actually made the earth seem small.

Neither Ivan-Tsarevitch nor Prince Ilya could sleep, so they sat together around the nice fire that Ivan had built, more of a make-work project since the night was warm enough.

Suddenly, Ilya's soft tenor took a serious turn, "I owe you an apology, Ivan-Tsarevitch."

Ivan turned to his companion in surprise.

"I've been insufferable. You've been very tolerant. More than I deserved."

"Aw, and here I thought you didn't know you were being a jerkwad," Ivan laughed, restraining himself from scratching under the splints and bandages on his right hand. "Now I've got to beat the crap out of you to balance everything up."

"If it comes to balance, I suppose I could always tie one hand behind my back so you have a chance," Ilya sniffed.

Ivan yawned. He was in too quiet and introspective a mood to follow up.

Next thing he knew it was bright daylight, and Volkyev was shaking him awake. What he couldn't figure out was how he had fallen asleep curled up around Ilya, his nose nuzzling the prince's hair as the slightly shorter man slept tucked under his arm. King Volkyev's index finger was pressed to his lips, a warning for silence. Ivan followed the direction of his eyes; Irena Galitzen was still snoozing in her bed of fir boughs. He shot the wolf-king a grateful look, and stood. Prince Ilya opened his eyes at the change of warmth.

Several minutes later, they left the Land between Night and Dawn behind them.

Irena resumed her litany of escape attempts. Over the Tajik deserts, she launched into a dissertation on the common household poisons she had used on Khoschei. Unfortunately, with his magical protection, instead of dying, he had only corroded a bit further. Above Turkmenistan, she explained the difficulties of trying to chisel through solid rock with kitchen utensils. As they swept across the Caspian Sea, the efforts to manufacture homemade explosives from food were listed in great detail. Ivan was relieved they hadn't eaten breakfast, since he was sure the graphic descriptions would've given him indigestion.

What interested him wasn't that Irena had the liveliest of minds to think of these ideas in the first place, but how similar she was to Prince Ilya. Not that Ilya spoke as much as she did, but when he did, it was along the same patterns of thought. Yet she had been stolen from him at such a young age, Ivan wondered how it was possible for the son to resemble her so closely, and if souls were born together as families because of such similarities, what resemblance, if any, did Ivan share with his?

A more startling realization was that he felt no extraordinary attraction toward her, even though she was beautiful, smart and clearly strong and capable enough to contribute to her own defense. In the past, his infatuation for her would've been completely unrestrained, no matter if she was married. Ivan's fascination with Ilya and, he had to admit, Stefan Volkyev, was stronger.

When, at last, they circled the minarets of Ushkara, and Ushkar Khan strode from beneath the vibrant mosaics which covered the walls of his gates, however, her voice fell silent. No one had the heart to speak. Instead, the stillness---after Ushkar swept her into his arms---was prayerful. Everyone wept, except for Prince Ilya who looked so serenely lost and shell-shocked that Ivan and Stephan Volkyev, now in wolf form, bolstered him with a hand on each shoulder. The Khan would not release her, not even when he went to hug his son or Ivan-Tsarevitch and King Volkyev.

Ushkar's words to Ilya were almost shy. "Please forgive me for my weakness. I could not bear the thought of losing you both."

Normally, such an unabashed display of emotion and solemnity would have left Ivan squirming. Something had awakened within him, though, since he had departed on his quest. Uncertainty and instability had been replaced with solidity, maturity and self-confidence. For all the time he spent flying around on King Volkyev's back, his feet had never felt so connected to the earth. When Prince Ilya told his father that he always knew and there was no apology or explanation needed, ever, Ivan knew he meant it. He tried to imagine saying the same thing to his own father. He found that there was something essential missing. Perhaps he was more connected to the earth, but the same strength of connection to his father wasn't there at all. A sulphurous whiff of envy for Ilya and the Khan swirled through Ivan's thoughts.

When the time came for Ushkar to extend his welcome to Ivan-Tsarevitch, the man was completely overcome. He simply could not speak. So they stood in silence until the urge to weep turned into laughter.

"I never expected that the son of my enemy would become my dearest benefactor," he finally said. "Or that he would return my heart, my reason for life."

The palace glowed that night with laughter, good wine and food, fireworks, music and dancing. Jasmine, gardenia and white lilies sweetened the air. Hundreds of winking lanterns had been set out in the garden where the night was as soft as a warm blanket.

Ushkar Khan insisted on hearing the story of their rescue several times. He especially roared with laughter at their impromptu sword practice, and their descriptions of Baba Yaga. "God help us, if this aspect of her appearance becomes common knowledge! Our young men will be charging off in droves to Siberia only to find themselves in a real stew."

His eyes kept flitting between Ivan-Tsarevitch, King Volkyev and Prince Ilya, as though reading more into the story than Ivan could think to tell. It made Ivan wonder if he had missed something in his own story.

Suddenly, his breath caught.

The most important thing. Why hadn't he seen it before?

Soon, he would take his leave, and Prince Ilya would be left behind. Given the hostility between their kingdoms, it was most unlikely they would meet again. Not much longer after that, he would have to say farewell to King Volkyev as well. Ivan had lost comrades before. Most of the soldiers from his old infantry unit had gone their separate ways after the war with no inclination to stay in touch. Most of his friends from school had scattered in a similar fashion. The thought of parting from these two, though, left him feeling like his lungs had been sucked out through his throat.

Ushkar Khan approached him. "Has something happened?"

"No." The third prince rose to his feet. "But I think it's time for me to say goodnight."

"The footman will lead you to your apartments," the Khan beckoned to one of the men who held a brace of lanterns dangling from long hooks. "Though there is nothing in my kingdom magnificent enough to house you, Ivan-Tsarevitch."

"Your hospitality and kindness are the finest I've ever received. I am heartily ashamed of the circumstances under which we met."

"But they were the most fortunate of circumstances for me," Ushkar replied. "A star shines on that hour. You may have anything from my kingdom you desire. Ask!"

It was Prince Ilya's face which appeared in Ivan-Tsarevitch's mind. Instead, he said, "To earn my father's forgiveness, I must bring him the golden monkey which has been stealing the Tsarina's peaches. To win the golden monkey, I must bring Tsar Nasradin the white charger."

"Is that all? But we have already agreed that the white charger is yours, along with my everlasting fealty. That is too little. Is there nothing else?"

"It's more than enough, more than enough!" Ivan hastily reassured him. He could just imagine trying to cart back entire treasure troves on the back of King Volkyev and the daydream did not end pleasantly, no matter how many princes and princesses the wolf could manage without complaint. "I only wish my father were half so generous and reasonable."

"Your father is from a different age, Ivan-Tsarevitch. It gives me hope to see a new world emerging through his son."

"His son, but not his heir." Ivan's heart sank again. "The Imperial Prince Konstantin is as devout an Orthodox as they come," he remembered the last time he met with his brother, and amended the statement, "in his own way."

"Then you must have faith, Ivan-Tsarevitch. Even if things go entirely wrong, you won't regret following your heart. Everything changes under the sun, even brothers."

With a bow, Ivan took his leave.

Ivan's suite was lightly perfumed with incense. The golden light cast by oil lamps made the walls look like they were fashioned from flower petals, not carved marble. He dismissed the footman and eyed the sunken pool of water in which roses floated, real ones.

Then he heard a slight sound from the corner, almost too quiet to detect. A quick glance left him reeling in shock.

Prince Ilya was on his knees, his hands alternately clutching and massaging the back of King Volkyev's long thighs, his mouth---Ivan nearly fell over as he realized what Ilya was doing with his mouth. Blood left his head in a rush. He almost dropped to his own knees in automatic response. The wolf-king's head was thrown back. The soft, almost inaudible moans of Ilya's tenor blended into the babble of water from a nearby fountain.

Together, Ilya and Volkyev represented everything Ivan could not have, utterly beyond reach, intellectually---how well he knew it---in emotional maturity and, now, physically as well. Everything he had, everything that was made out to be so important, was empty and futile: his standing in the royal family; a war record shadowed by his own realization of how the victory had been manufactured more by duplicity in his enemies' own ranks, than by any personal achievement; even the victory over Khoschei. He realized it could only have happened because of the sacrifices and well-timed actions of his companions, certainly not due to his dint of strength or keen mind. These were all double-edged swords, holding external accolades, prestige and strength along the line of one edge, and a profound awareness of how undeserved they felt to cut him along the other. Ilya and Volkyev had become his polar stars, his fixed place in the firmament against which he measured how clearly his inner experience of reality was integrated with solid, physical truth. Externally, Ivan was at the top of his world. Inwardly, Ivan was crumbling.

Volkyev's long white fingers with their fearsomely sharp nails threaded Ilya's hair, flexing to counter the urge to grab hold and thrust. Ilya's long, neatly trimmed white fingers clasped and kneaded Volkyev's buttocks.

Despair nearly flattened Ivan. He should've realized they were lovers, the way their enthusiasm and inspiration sparked off each other during the quest. His presence must have been a huge obstacle. He supposed they had come to his room in order for Prince Ilya to wish him farewell personally and privately for the last time. Perhaps King Volkyev had meant to say it, also, now that Ivan had the white charger to ride to Tsar Nasradin's kingdom. He had taken too much time with Ushkar Khan, and, while he was busy, they had---Ivan swallowed hard, throbbing in sympathy as Ilya's lips and cheeks alternately sucked and released. He watched the other prince's throat contract around Volkyev with each swirl of his tongue. Volkyev held his breath and released it in small gasps.

Mesmerized as Ivan was by the sight of Ilya's mouth at work, the two of them were far too involved to notice that he was there. He decided it was best to slip out quietly. He was so used to sleeping under the stars, there would be no trouble finding a quiet spot in the courtyard, if sleep was possible.

At that moment, Volkyev started to clench erratically, his muscles rippling with tension, and Ivan couldn't hold down a rumble of appreciation. At the sound, the two lovers instantly spotted him and stopped what they were doing. Ilya slipped off, leaving Volkyev slick and glistening. Ivan licked his lips, filled with an almost irresistible urge to taste.

"Sorry," he laughed, blood scorching his cheeks, more from arousal than nervousness, although he felt a bit foolish.

"Ivan-Tsarevitch!" Volkyev's bass voice rubbed against him like velvet. Ilya gracefully rose to his feet.

"I'm just going to go now." Ivan awkwardly gestured in the general direction of the door behind him and tried walking backwards toward it, not quite able to turn away. They were aware of his shock.

"Wait!" Ilya called out. Both he and Volkyev started advancing toward him. Didn't they know he had to leave? That he couldn't bear to be there, watching them and wishing they hadn't paired off and left him on the sidelines.

"Just pretend I was never here," Ivan turned and tensed to run. Ilya darted forward and caught him by the wrist, swinging him around.

"Where do you think you're going?" Ilya's smile had a predatory edge. His eyes were unreadable pools. Ivan was confused, almost irritated. This was supposed to be his room. They couldn't possibly be angry at him, although Ivan was pretty sure he wouldn't act reasonably either, if he was in the same boat.

"Let go. Come on, I didn't mean to interrupt," he explained, struggling. "This is my room, dammit!"

"No." Ilya cinched his arms around Ivan even more tightly. Ivan could hear the heavy tread of the wolf-king's feet as he drew close. He could feel the warm puffs of Volkyev's breath against the back of his neck. He wanted so much to tip his head back and rest it against Volkyev's shoulder.

"Stop it. I'm not gonna be the passive spectator at a sex performance. I'm leaving."

"No, you aren't." The wolf-king's nose nudged at his ear as he murmured. Warmth flooded over him as Volkyev's hands circled under his arms and around his torso.

"Not now that we've finally caught you." Ilya's red tongue licked a swathe of skin from indentation at Ivan's collar all the way up to his jaw. Ivan finally connected the dots. The air that rushed in to cool behind it made his skin feel as if sparks were shooting off every cell. Ilya's hair smelled like saffron and caramel, like things that cooked too fast and hot, then burnt quickly. The scent stuck in Ivan's head as he tried to wrap what was left of his brain cells around what was happening.

Ivan was trapped between them and held captive as Ilya and Volkyev kissed. His pulse raced as he saw their tongues sweep and drag against each other, humping each other's mouths. For a brief moment, the old insecurity returned and he felt jealous of both of them, his thoughts skirting around the possibility that they were doing this to taunt him. Then he shook it off. In his time with them, he had learned that they were formidable opponents, fearsome enemies, but not cruel, not intentionally degrading like --- like Khoschei---and, in any case, not _his_ enemies. They were his dearest and most beloved friends, and now, they were inviting him into their circle.

Ivan trembled---a long, slow earthquake of nerves firing off from the soles of his feet all the way up his spine. Ilya rocked against him---nothing more than a short, teasing snap of the hips, and the resulting electrical jolt made him tip back his head and yowl.

They broke off their kiss. Ivan could feel the vibrations of their laughter against his chest, soothing him, calming the agitation of his disbelief. It was really happening. They were actually going to do it. And it was all happening without any effort on his part. It was his companions who had chosen to do this. They had just handed him a nice, tall glass of gratification.

Fingers lightly skimmed over the muscles of his stomach, and then, Volkyev and Ilya attacked, pulling at his sash, unbuttoning his tunic, loosening his belt. It wasn't tidy, a tug here, a button popped there, a lot of fumbling with curses. A sneaking thought that seemed so unlikely that its very existence stunned Ivan, forced him to draw in his breath again, it was so audacious---that his two lovers were as desperate as he was for this to happen. It couldn't be true! Yet everything was slipped off his shoulders and hips as those fingers relentlessly quested over him, tracing, rubbing, circling, trying to memorize him by touch.

Ivan loved how they were so out of control in their control of him. Before he could quite catch his breath, his lips were firmly worked beneath Ilya's. Fingers caressed his chin, signalling their intent with feathery strokes, until he tipped his mouth open and the other prince sipped straight from his tongue.

Ivan's bare skin rubbed against clothing. It was good quality clothing, sewn from fabric chosen for its fine, comfortable texture, but it interfered, and he couldn't wait to tear it away. He needed sensation, to drink, to see, and touch, to let feelings enliven his body. He inadvertently gave Ilya's tunic a sharp yank, trying to get it out of his way, all his fingers turning into thumbs.

While Ilya drew back, neatly folding and setting aside each garment, torturously slow---the half-smile back as a taunt and challenge, Volkyev nipped and soothed along the slopes of Ivan's neck. Ivan was so fired by Ilya's beauty, the pallor of his skin, the sleek sheen of his hair, he barely registered the slow glide of Volkyev's hands over his stomach and the planes of his chest. The sensations grew so subtly, building to a crescendo of flickering heat and electrical thrumming. The Wolf-King rolled the younger man's nipples between his thumbs and index fingers until they grew hot and sensitive, and eyes still glued to Ilya's strip-tease, Ivan writhed against the erection pressed up behind him.

"Patience," Ilya stepped forward and ran his fingers across Volkyev's cheeks to cool his blood. "We're too tense and excited, Ivan-Tsarevitch. Here, we'd hoped to take off some of the edge before you came in, but you caught us in mid-act. Then we had to drop what we were doing and collect you before we lost you."

"Patience? After what you two put me through these past few weeks?" Ivan couldn't believe his ears. "I'm so hard, I can't even walk; the breeze alone will make me come. If you don't get into me fast, you might be back to taking the edge off each other from scratch."

"It's good to know you want us to---as you say---get into you," Ilya smiled. "That sorts out at least one of my questions."

He stretched out a hand, caught the phial of oil which Volkyev threw, pulled out the cork stopper and poured some over his fingers.

"I would do it myself," the wolf-king lightly dragged the tip of a sharp talon along the cleft, "but I don't think you really want this inside you."

Ivan shivered. He just might be willing to let Volkyev do it, which was frightening. It told him how far they had progressed with their inroads into his heart. They had opened him up in so many other ways, there wasn't much left he wouldn't do for either of them.

"Sure, either way." Ivan shrugged. "I'm just glad I was invited to the party."

"Invited?" Ilya gave him a shrewd look as he dropped to his knees in front of him. "Didn't you know? You're the main attraction."

"Naw, tell me another one!" Ivan grinned. "You mean to tell me that you've been _jonesing_ on me all this time?"

The fingers which stretched him open were blunt, although no matter how gently Ilya worked, they still felt dangerous. Even though he was no blushing rose, Ivan's breath quickened nervously.

When the others didn't speak, he gasped, "If I'd known sooner, I would've done something."

"What would you have done?" Volkyev reached around and, sliding his fingers around the base of Ivan's cock, closed them firmly and gave a long slow tug. "When we weren't preparing for the battle, Ilya's mother was around."

Ivan sucked in a breath and didn't release it until Ilya's tongue moved on him and he was engulfed in that soft, warm, wet mouth.

It was too much. It all came out in a rush as he cried with pleasure.

Ilya was so startled, he swallowed once before backing off as the last throb shot across his cheek.

"You have been holding back, haven't you?" Ilya wiped it off with his thumb, rising to his feet. He was about to pop it into his mouth, when Volkyev seized his wrist, leaned over Ivan's shoulder, and lifted it to his lips instead. Even though Ivan was still suspended in the chaotic rumpus of his own pulse and shaking muscles, the half-dark glimpse of proud Stephan Volkyev's tongue flicking out to lick off his come from Ilya's fingers just next to his cheek made him moan with desire.

The wolf-king still held him upright. Ivan gasped out a breathless apology, feeling like he blew it by coming so soon. He thought he had better self-control by now.

"What are you talking about?" Volkyev growled, his voice huskier than ever. "It isn't over yet."

Ivan felt himself being steered somewhere; his eyes too unfocused and his head too foggy to think about it. Hands lowered him onto piles of soft silken carpets. Cushions were set under his hips and torso. His knees were lifted up over Volkyev's shoulders. For less than a second, Ivan wondered when the wolf-king had found time to disrobe, and then there was the slow burning stretch as a thick cock pushed into him, deep and wide. He was being opened.

Volkyev's face was amazing, red eyes glinting, the bridge of his nose wrinkling with concentration, a snarl curling his lip. The black and silver hairs which rose from his temples looked like curls of smoke which wove into the shocking white hair. His unearthly ferocity held Ivan in thrall. He had wanted this since that first night, when Volkyev had insisted on watching him in the bath. He just didn't ever think it was going to happen. Then Volkyev's hips snapped and Ivan was lost in acute sensation. Over and over, the wolf-king drove into him.

Then, after a few minutes, his partner pulled out and Ivan was nudged to turn over onto his hands and knees. This surprised him until the sight of Ilya sitting on his knees roused his recollection. The prince's fair white skin never looked so appetizing, the long, slender erection twitching near Ivan's nose. So while the wolf-king fucked him from behind, Ivan wrapped his lips around Ilya completely and took him deep into his throat.

Ilya let out a long happy sigh, and bucked his head back, the long black hair shimmering like a curtain. It made Ivan happier than he had been since the night of his ill-fated drinking contest. Scratch that: happier than---ever! He couldn't think of any happiness that had matched this. After all this time of wanting and needing, they were inside him, and nothing had ever felt as true as the throbbing in his veins while Stefan relentlessly slammed into that spot, and he swallowed around Ilya.

He arched his back to let the wolf-king drive into him even deeper, and then his energy contracted, condensing into almost unbearable tightness. Just when it pulled itself into the point of pain, it exploded in all-consuming waves of pleasure.

Overcome by the sudden tightness, Volkyev clung to Ivan as he came, growling, rocking involuntarily until his body emptied into the prince completely, and he sank, boneless and head spinning.

Ivan continued to ply his tongue around Ilya, until the pale prince followed them, and all three collapsed onto the pillows, gasping for breath.

They switched many times that night, except for King Volkyev. Ivan and Ilya realized the alpha streak was just a little too hardwired in him, so they didn't press it. King Volkyev knew how to make them come, repeatedly. Ivan had never had so many orgasms one after each other.

It was dawn before he finally drifted asleep with exhaustion and contentment, sandwiched between his two lovers, and thoroughly at peace with the world.

The sun was at midheaven when the time to depart came at last. They had assembled outside the palace walls. Ushkar Khan clapped his hands, and the grooms led out the mighty horse which Ivan-Tsarevitch had tried to steal.

"Take this, and with it, my gratitude and my fealty. You will always be welcome in this kingdom, Ivan-Tsarevitch."

Ivan accepted the reins. Before he could mount the steed, Ushkar Khan took him aside.

"Troubling rumours have reached me, rumours which speak of an insurrection against the Great Tsar Vassilyi. I fear that the home you return to will not be the one you left. I'm sorry that I have no better news for you. Perhaps you will learn more as you meet with Tsar Nasradin."

Prince Ilya stepped forward, "Father, I must ask you to let me stand at Ivan-Tsarevitch's side. He will need staunch allies."

"Is this agreeable to you, Ivan-Tsarevitch?" Ushkar Khan asked.

Ivan was torn. As much as it thrilled him not to part with his lovers, he suddenly felt very protective toward Prince Ilya. He dared not say so, however, for fear of insulting the very capable warrior.

Ilya settled the matter for him. "If you say no, I will follow regardless."

He laughed and clapped his arm over the prince's shoulder. "I shall be thankful for your company."

Ilya saddled the white steed as Ivan mounted King Volkyev in his form as horse. Thanking Ushkar Khan for his warnings and his many generous presents, they set off for the kingdom of Tsar Nasradin.


	4. Part Four

Part Four (5,348 words)

When Ivan-Tsarevitch brought the white stallion to Tsar Nasradin, the young ruler's delight affected his entire court.

"You must tell us all about how you came to win your prize," the boy-tsar leaned confidentially over Ivan's shoulder, and caught the protective way in which Prince Ilya and King Volkyev reflexively leaned in. He teased them a little by extending and retracting his body, laughing while they drew near and retreated in perfect syncopation as though connected by invisible coiled wires.

"It must've been quite the feat. Under normal circumstances, there's no way Ushkar Khan would've willingly given you his horse." Nasradin gave him a wink, "Or his son."

Ivan was surprised to see him laugh and cavort so freely, someone utterly transformed, utterly unlike the sombre boy he saw last. It was like the sun had come out. The people around him were laughing and singing, dressing up in their most festive clothing. Streamers and strings of pennants were strung above the streets, garlands draped over balconies and balustrades, baskets of flowers set in corners, and lanterns from the boughs of trees. Slices of the chilled melons that had just come in season started to perfume the plaza, and wine-sellers served a local specialty, a fortified wine the colour of amber served over shaved ice with slices of sweet grapefruit and leaves of mint. Children were playing in the fountains. Nasradin had barely ridden the stallion an hour, before the animal was prancing on its hind legs like an equine ballerina.

"I don't understand why you're doing this for us." Ivan-Tsarevitch felt floored by the attention. He gave him a stupid grin and scratched the back of his head. "Didn't I--uh, seriously insult you the last time I was here?"

"Does this really surprise you?" Nasradin picked up a huge piece of watermelon and stuffed it into his mouth, beaming as the juice dripped down his arm. _"Is sush al re'ef jyu fanly rjjholved _ the hostilities between your kingdom and Ushkar Khan. Can't get," he took another chomp, "_mush betta dendat!"_

"Heh!" Ivan grinned even wider, pretending to understand perfectly.

A banquet was held in their honour and the celebration lasted well into the early hours of the morning.

Nasradin was so impressed with Prince Ilya's eloquence and intelligence that he gave him the white stallion, the prize of Ushkar's stables.

When he presented Ivan-Tsarevitch the golden monkey in its fantastic cage, he confirmed Ushkar Khan's suspicions, warning Ivan about the situation he would face when he returned home.

"From the rumours my friends have shared, it looks like Naslednyev-Tsarevitch has staged a coup d'état. Of course, I can't confirm it. So far, it appears to have been bloodless; it seems that the great Tsar and crown prince are being held under house arrest within their apartments at the Imperial Palace. The alliance between Tsar Vassilyi and his Cossacks is renowned throughout the world, and has extended so far back in time that it has now become a matter of legend. The usurper wouldn't dare to execute them openly, since this would surely turn the most formidable army in the kingdom against him. But your father and oldest brother may meet their deaths in suspicious accidents or illnesses if someone does not liberate them soon."

"Although I am grateful for your hospitality and for all your gifts, Tsar Nasradin, I hope you will understand if I tell you that I desire to leave for home as soon as possible."

"I understand. If you need troops and armaments, my army is at your command."

Ivan's jaw fell, so complete was his surprise.

"Even before you agreed to bring me the white stallion, I was aware of my debt and gratitude to you since our days in school. I was never truly offended when you were caught trying to take the golden monkey and was more than willing to let you take it at that time but for one thing: it is a magical creature, after all. It has been said that, under its animal disguise, this little monkey is actually a great entity called Son Goku, a force of great destruction from China---one said to have laid waste to the very heavens. I was already confident in your good heart, but needed to see the extent of your intelligence and power. The reversal of Ushkar Khan's hostility to you and your father's kingdom was more than enough. That you rid the Land between Night and Dawn of Khoschei and his goblin hordes was even better. Not even the angels had managed to accomplish that, although maybe they were busy with larger matters and had entrusted that to our mortal hands."

Tsar Nasradin's fingers hovered over a plate of fresh figs. Something about the way they fluttered made Ivan think of hummingbirds, their delicacy and the way they paused before darting forward to sip nectar from the right flower. When Nasradin decided, his fingers also darted quick as lightning.

"Even so, the golden monkey is not yours, Ivan-Tsarevitch. For now, you are its caretaker and responsible for its health, and you may take the creature with you, but it does not belong to you."

"To whom does it belong then?"

"Who knows?" The boy-tsar shrugged, nibbling at the fruit. "If Son Goku feels affection toward someone, perhaps he will allow that person to become his master."

Ivan wondered briefly if that was the secret behind the cage.

He tried to choose one of the fresh figs in same way that Nasradin had, but he didn't know the first thing about them. The only figs they ever ate at the Great Tsar's court were old and leathery. With a sigh, he picked one. It turned out to be juicy and delicious, as fruit presented to a Tsar's guest would be.

Nasradin smiled.

Later, when he was alone, Ivan removed one of the figs from his pocket, and offered it to the monkey. It looked up at him with eyes that were like black oceans licked by a liquid golden shoreline. Ivan figured the creature could see right through him. It hesitated for a minute or so before its paw zipped out, faster than Nasradin's, plucked the fruit from his fingers, and then the monkey darted to the far side of the cage to eat it.

Figuring it was a start, Ivan dropped the rest through the bars so that Goku could get at them whenever he felt like.

"So you made such a big ruckus in China that they decided to shut you up in this thing," he said. The creature was so intent on its fig that Ivan couldn't tell if it was listening or not. "That's a real shame. Little monkeys should be out playing, swinging from branches in the forest, splashing around in hot pools near waterfalls, and eating fruit whenever they like, not locked in cages at the whims of caretakers."

He turned around, leaned his back against the cage and slid to the ground. The sky was so clear that the stars looked like the eyes of monkeys winking in the heavens.

"So we'll take you to my father and let him sort out what he wants to do with you. If I can't open the cage, there's a good chance he won't be able to, either. Even if he can't let you out, at least he can't get in to hurt you."

He turned around. The little pile of figs he had dropped into the cage was all gone. Goku was sitting on the far side of the cage with his back to him, as though nothing had happened.

"Here's where you are," Prince Ilya's voice floated across the garden to Ivan.

"Yeah, couldn't sleep."

"That's quite normal for you, isn't it?"

"Sometimes."

"What a beautiful night." Ilya sank to a crouch beside Ivan. "Almost makes you wish it could last forever."

Ivan-Tsarevitch was more captivated by the reflection of starlight off Prince Ilya's skin. It was almost self-luminous. "Where's Stefan?"

"Fast asleep. Tomorrow he will be carrying you on the last leg of your journey, after all."

"The extra horse is easier on him, but it takes a little longer to get going."

"Have you thought of what you're going to do when you get home?" Prince Ilya asked.

Ivan-Tsarevitch nodded grimly. "Yeah, the first thing I'm going to do is get in to see Konstantin."

"Your--?"

"My oldest brother, the Crown Prince."

"And then?"

Ivan shrugged. "He will know what to do."

"I see. So, basically, you haven't got a plan."

Ivan nodded, remembering. "Just winging it as I go along."

"Right. Why don't you wing it into bed then? If you join me now, I will help you relax you so you can sleep."

Ivan smiled and held out his hand to let Ilya pull him up. He felt restrained, however, something was holding him against the cage. "What the--?"

Ivan's sash was knotted around one of the bars. He tugged at it, swearing and cursing like a trooper. "How did--?"

He stopped and shot an accusatory look at the monkey.

Prince Ilya started to laugh. "It looks like you've made a new friend."

Konstantin-Tsarevitch didn't look the least bit surprised when King Volkyev hurtled through the window of his bedroom, and Ivan-Tsarevitch and Prince Ilya tumbled off, golden cage in hand.

"What took you?" was all he had to say, reaching over to lock the window shut behind them. Their arrival had set off the usual storm of crows, which had been forgotten since the death of Khoschei.

The white stallion had been secretly hidden in the stables of the innkeeper who had looked after the downed contestant after Ivan-Tsarevitch's ill-fated drinking contest. She was glad to do it. Ivan-Tsarevitch was good for trade. Palace takeovers were not.

The golden cage had magically shrunk to a size that could be carried by one strong man, although it seemed to crowd Son Goku pitifully. Ivan-Tsarevitch had promptly handed him to Prince Ilya, certain that his intellectual friend could manage the tricky creature more effectively than he ever could. Once their feet were firmly planted on Konstantin's marble floor, and the cage was set down, it grew to an enormous size, reaching the ceiling.

"What do you know: liveliest times since Ivan the Terrible, and nothing's changed." Ivan dusted himself off. "Caught up on the paperwork yet? I bet there's enough flying around to keep you going until the next Red October."

Konstantin's cheekbone twitched. Ivan figured he was on a roll.

"How's God these days? Gotten any closer?"

"Ivan." Prince Ilya tugged at his elbow, his voice cautionary and low.

Konstantin's face twitched again, and he almost_\---almost!---_broke out in a smile. "Who's your new boyfriend, dickhead?"

Ivan snickered. "Boyfriend_ssssss,_ plural, not that it's any of your business. King Volkyev, you already know. Prince Ilya of Ushkara."

"Ushkara?" Konstantin snorted. "Well, I'll be damned."

"Nice to meet you, too." Prince Ilya bowed, which the crown prince acknowledged with a grunt.

"Naslednyev-Tsarevitch knows we've arrived." Ivan mentioned. "His black-feathered handmaidens had their usual front-row seat when we came in."

Konstantin ignored this, walking over to the golden cage instead and placing his hand against the bars. He and the little monkey stared at each other.

"Which---uh, means that his soldiers are probably on their way right now," Ivan continued, thrown off by his brother's apparent lack of concern. "And we should probably make our escape."

"I promised you we would meet again." Konstantin told the monkey. "You could have just stayed with me all along and spared us this nonsense."

"Hey!" Ivan confronted his brother. With what, exactly, he had no idea, but somehow Konstantin had manipulated him into bringing the monkey back … Or maybe he hadn't; Ivan seemed to remember asking him for it directly after all, but _somehow,_ he had done this conniving thing and Ivan was going to call him on it. He was going to launch a serious and vocal protest, and--and--

"You had something to say?" Konstantin asked him, dryly.

Ivan's lips snapped shut.

He was astounded to see the monkey stand up on its hind legs and straighten and grown until it took the form of what appeared to be a teenaged boy with golden-brown hair, golden eyes and a golden crown.

"Another shapeshifter," King Volkyev stated the obvious.

"Soooo, does this mean he's the Monkey King?" Ivan asked.

No one replied.

The boy walked over to where Konstantin stood, reached out his hand and when he touched the cage, a door appeared. He lifted the latch and walked out on his own. Then he reached over to take a lock of Konstantin's long golden hair between his fingers, and while stroking it said, "I'm hungry, Konstantin. You wouldn't happen to have anymore of those peaches around, would you?"

"Not to intrude on your reunion," Prince Ilya interrupted, peering out the window, "but there's a company of soldiers entering the palace, and a fusillade of crossbows and muskets aimed at your window. We can't make our escape this way."

With a flourish, he unsheathed his knives and stood on the sheltering side of the door, ready to surprise the first ones who made it through. King Volkyev was already in wolf-form, facing the door, teeth exposed, hackles bristling, a low, threatening growl.

"This is as good a place as any to plan a counter-revolution." Konstantin-Tsarevitch explained.

"Not if you're dead," Ilya retorted. "And it looks like that's your traitor's intention. Are you bullet-proof?"

The crown prince sighed. "Ivan, you know what to do."

Ivan stared at him blankly.

"Fer crying out loud, of all the useless--!" Konstantin stormed over to the Firebird hanging which sheltered the secret entrance to his chambers, and hiked it up. "Make sure you grab a lantern or candle to light your way."

The crown prince yanked the on candelabra bracket just above his head which was the lever that moved the stones. With heavy grinding sound, they slid apart. He pulled one of the lit tapers out of its holder, and, grabbing Son Goku's shoulder with the other hand, led them into the cramped stone passage. The wolf and Prince Ilya followed closely, and Ivan brought up the rear, stopping only to tear down one of the lacy net curtains which filtered the sunlight through Konstantin's south windows, roll it into a loose ball and tuck it under his arm. He had an idea for it.

The stone stairs which spiralled down were so old that centuries of tread had worn smooth footsized indentations in them---incontrovertible proof that it had not been so secret in the past. Once in awhile, the air was refreshed by the intake flowing through narrow arrow loops, slits in the walls where an archer could train his shot in defense of the palace. It created an updraught which nearly blew out the candles, but most of the space was dark and musty, and choked with cobwebs. There was a sound of scrabbling and squeaking which betrayed the presence of rats.

No sooner had Ivan dropped the heavy tapestry, when he heard the sharp rap on the door. The others were climbing down the long spiralling staircase so quickly and quietly, he almost thought he was alone. He pulled the lever on the inside of the door and it closed behind them.

The stones successfully masked any noises that came from that side of the door.

He hadn't gone far when he ran into Ilya's back. His friends had come to a standstill. He tried to see what the problem was, but the staircase was too curved and too cramped.

"What's going on?" He hissed in Ilya's ear, but he didn't even need an answer. He instantly recognized the low, silken tones, which slithered up the very rocks on which they stood.

Ivan couldn't hear what Naslednyev was saying, but his rogue brother's voice was unmistakable. Of course Naslednyev would know about the secret passageway. All the Tsar's children were educated in the palace's hidden places.

"He has a pistol," Ilya hissed back. "And your brother is unarmed."

"Yes, but Konstantin has infantry, remember?"

The inaudible voices rose into a quarrel, until Ivan distinctly heard Konstantin shout, "Like hell I will!"

And then, a shot rang out, followed by the sound of something breaking.

"Damn!" Volkyev growled, "He's shot at the monkey."

"Did he kill him?" Ivan asked, alarmed.

"It doesn't look like it."

And then another growl, even lower and more dangerous than anything the wolf-king had ever uttered. It started low and then rose into an unearthly howl. Then there were more shouts, from Naslednyev this time. A second shot exploded, and then a short silence, during which everyone held their breaths. Suddenly, there came some shouts of terror and panic. Ivan wished he had a clue what was going on. Soon enough, however, the sounds grew faint and he found Ilya and Volkyev pushing forward over the stairs. They had to step over the glassy-eyed corpse of a soldier whose throat had been torn out.

"What's happening now?" Ivan cried.

"The Monkey King caught the bullets in his teeth," Ilya called back. "Now he's giving chase."

"Damn!" Ivan, impressed, stepped over a second corpse that had been rendered limb from limb. "If it can catch bullets, what are we doing running after it?"

"I'm not sure. Trying to protect Konstantin-Tsarevitch, I presume. Do you have any better ideas?"

"For starters, I think someone needs to rescue and protect my father." Ivan replied.

Ilya stopped short. "That sounds like an excellent strategy. If the crown prince has Son Goku with him, he hardly needs us. Why don't we go and rescue the Great Tsar?"

King Volkyev looked torn. Ivan assumed it was because he still felt beholden to his brother.

"It's alright with me if you want to go ahead." Ivan told him. "We will probably join you eventually anyway."

"I am not sure of the boy's abilities," the wolf-king admitted. "Or if he can be---inhibited, once that power slips its leash. Your brother may have as much to fear from him as Naslednyev and his supporters."

"Then, go, by all means!" Ivan-Tsarevitch placed a hand on the wolf's magnificent shoulders. "We will bring reinforcements."

Prince Ilya crouched to hug King Volkyev. "Be safe."

They both felt the fear for his life as he left them.

Ilya took a long stuttering breath and asked Ivan, "Is there a way to reach your father from inside this passageway?"

"Yeah, but we have to back up a little." Ivan turned around. "Even though no one was supposed to know about it except father, we all knew. It was the worst-kept secret in the kingdom."

"Which means Naslednyev knew about that passageway as well?" Ilya confirmed.

"No doubt about it." Ivan reached the last arrow loop he had past while following his brother. Ivan threw down his lantern and unfurled the white net curtain under his arm. Suddenly, he gave the stones a good kick with the heel of his foot. He gave an almighty leap out as stone tilted out and down, like a drawbridge, flooding them with daylight. The passage which opened beneath his feet ran beneath the place where a ridgepole would have been set between the two sloping sides of an angled roof. The crows which lined it were startled into flight. Their confusion reigned just long enough for him to fling the curtain like a snare over them, so that their feet and wings were tangled in its webs. Within a matter of seconds, he had closed the net around six birds who squawked and flapped with fury at their captivity.

"If the idiot had been less arrogant, he would've posted men in the passage instead of these." He waved the strange bundle at Ilya.

"He probably couldn't find any men he could sufficiently trust." Ilya squinted at the wriggling mass. "What do you plan to do with them now? Throttle them? We can't just let them go."

"No time for that. Right now, I'm more worried that some of their friends will try to join them. This is nowhere near the numbers Naslednyev's trained to spy for him." Ivan searched around for a place to stash them. "Can I borrow your sabresash? I'd use mine but my hands are kinda full."

Without hesitance, Ilya unwrapped the sash, then quickly wove it in and around the mesh of the curtain, securing the opening to the bundle. Ivan then tossed the birds into the passage where they rolled down enough stairs until they came to a landing that their squawks were swallowed by the stones.

Above the two princes shone a clear blue sky lit by the sun. They had to run with stooped heads and shoulders in order not to be spotted by men stationed in the courtyard.

"Ahead will be a door which leads to the Tsar's rooms." Ivan murmured. "I expect that there will probably be guards."

Ilya nodded and raised his knives.

Fortunately, the guards who had been stationed at Tsar Vasilyi's door had not been expecting them. Nor had the Great Tsar, when they burst through his fireplace, soaked with blood and now, covered with ash. Nor had the assassins who were struggling to pull a noose around Tsar Vasilyi's neck and hoist him up over the chandelier. Ivan sceptically eyed the massive gold fixture, it's rococo arms flourishing out like the stamen of a passionflower. Tsar Nasradin had guessed right; Naslednyev was trying to make the assassination look like a suicide. Ivan didn't think the chandelier was strong enough though. The Great Tsar was tall and had an enormous girth. His chest was so barrelled it rivalled the trunk of one of his ancient trees, and solid gold was a pliant metal, easily bent. Even so, Prince Ilya whirled in with his knives and made short work of the killers. They didn't have time to react. Then he cut away the bonds from the Great Tsar's hands.

"Ivan?" Tsar Vasilyi turned toward his son, as though disbelieving his eyes.

"That's me," said the third prince.

"I was told you were a traitor and a fugitive. I was advised to banish you."

Ivan was not trying to ignore his father. He was still trying to shake the blood from the first two men that Naslednyev had stationed at the Tsar's door off the blood-groove of his sword, but the cinders and ashes from the fireplace had caused it to adhere, and Ivan was getting a bit obsessive over it. Frustrated, he walked over to the nearest corpse and delicately wiped the blade clean on his arm, taking care not to dull the edge.

"Of course, now I see who the real traitor has been all along." The Great Tsar muttered, bemused.

"To whom do I owe the gift of my life?" He turned to the prince who saved him, splendid in spite of his coat of blood and soot.

"Father," Ivan stepped forward, "Allow me to introduce my dear friend and loyal companion, Prince Ilya of Ushkara."

Once he was able to make his way out the secret exit from his apartments, the Great Tsar could lift the flag which verified his state as prisoner for all to see. Within minutes, the Cossacks responded.

It was a great host that went to the aid of Konstantin-Tsarevitch, Son Goku and King Volkyev as they were held at bay in the courtyard, Naslednyev's muskets trained directly upon them, forty soldiers to their three. The passage behind them was still open and Konstantin was obviously backing up to it, Volkyev bristling in front like shield with teeth and claws.

It seemed unlikely that Son Goku could have held off all that many bullets, although Ivan wasn't willing to bet on it. Already the corpses of the three soldiers who had joined Naslednyev in the passage littered the ground in various degrees of dismemberment or disembowelment. The air was electric with fear, the sharpshooters' fingers poised on their triggers. Ivan could understand this when he got a good look at the golden monkey.

It was not Son Goku anymore. The creature had fangs and talons that were even longer than Volkyev's. His eyes glowed like yellow fire, every trace of higher consciousness missing. His pointed tongue would dart out to lick his lips. This creature was ruled by instinct and bloodlust. It was unlikely to distinguish between friend and foe. More than ever, Ivan feared for Volkyev. Indeed, it almost seemed as though the wolf-king were preparing to launch itself at the Monkey King should it move toward the crown prince.

In the confusion, when the Tsar's Cossacks surrounded Naslednyev's troop, Konstantin ran forward and slammed a golden circlet onto the Monkey King's brow. It caused the creature to transform back into the shape of the young man who looked about the same age as Tsar Nasradin. It also caused him to pass out. Konstantin caught him and dragged him into the protection of the passageway.

Volkyev followed, but not before a musket blasted and he caught the lead in his shoulder.

It was the traitors who were now surrounded. In the face of such hopeless odds, they surrendered. Or, at least, Naslednyev's men did. The second prince, himself, had disappeared.

Ivan and Ilya pushed through to where their wounded friends lay in the shadows just beyond the doorway. Litters and physicians were summoned.

All in all, the counter-rebellion took less than half-an-hour after Ivan's return to his father's dominions.

All that remained was the hunt for the Naslednyev. Tsar Vasilyi summoned his best trackers and they were immediately sent to find him, but no one held much hope that the wily traitor would be found---except for Prince Ilya.

"How is it you feel so much certainty?" The Great Tsar asked the question that everyone wanted to know. They were all baffled since the second prince's fiendish mind for strategy must have contrived a contingency plan should the coup fail, and the Tsar's loyal followers were certain it was original enough that trackers would never find him.

"The only scruple I feel in this matter is that he will not likely be brought back alive." Ilya bit on his lower lip, considering. "Does this matter to you?"

The Great Tsar closed his eyes in grief, and sighed heavily. When he opened them again and looked into Ilya's clean, clear expression, he said, "He is already dead to me. He died the moment he plotted against his brothers and me."

Ilya nodded. "Then all that we need do is wait until twilight."

So they waited, and when the shadows started to lengthen, Ilya had the bundle of Naslednyev's crows brought up from the secret passageway where Ivan had thrown them. They were shaken but still alive.

Servants bound their legs with long leather cords. At the ends of these, were knotted even longer strips of linen which had been soaked in kerosene.

"Oh, I see what you intend to do," Ivan-Tsarevitch suddenly cried.

"What is it?" His father asked. "I'm all in wonderment."

"Do you wish to do the honours?" Prince Ilya asked his lover.

Ivan took a large candle from the _épurgne_, and lit it within the fireplace. The footmen were told to keep the birdwings folded carefully next to their bodies and bring them next to the window. Ivan lit the fabric wicks with the fire and the servants released the crows throwing them out. The creatures circled the courtyard, shrieking their outrage, fiery jesses trailing after them.

"Firebirds!" Tsar Vasilyi declared, as he watched the flaming streamers light the black like shooting stars. The crows then broke the circle and flew beyond the city gates. From the tall windows of the great hall, which stood so high over the countryside, the Tsar's counsel watched the flames turn into tiny pinpricks of light until they sank down onto the roof of a farmhouse in the countryside. In that part of Russia, the farmhouses were thatched with straw. In less than a minute, the farmhouse was engulfed in flames. So ended Naslednyev for he was never seen, nor heard of again.

For the undisputable help which Prince Ilya gave to Tsar Vasilyi, the conflict between the Great Tsar and the Khanate of Ushkara was resolved. The Great Tsar officially gave Ushkar Khan and Princess Irena Galitzen his blessings. When members of the Church protested, Prince Konstantin reminded them that their presence during the conflict had been conspicuous by its absence, and they stood to lose their most powerful allies; perhaps it was time for Russia to move in the same direction as the countries which had separated Church from State. This silenced their critics.

It was Konstantin-Tsarevitch who had managed to constrain the Monkey King by leading him back to his cage and closing the door behind the both of them. The cage succeeded in inhibiting the creature's power, and had to suffice until Son Goku's crown was fixed. Konstantin's presence calmed him. When asked about his pride, whether living caged with an animal wounded it, the crown prince replied that it wasn't much different than his usual life, and could they please hurry it up with repair job? Did they think he had time to waste sitting on his ass next to a chimp forever?

Naslednyev's treachery had changed Konstantin-Tsarevitch's outlook. He no longer desired to become a priest, but was resolved to succeed his father on the throne when it was time. There wasn't much left for Ivan-Tsarevitch to do except enjoy his status as hero of the kingdom, something he had always wanted anyway.

The Tsar was not only impressed by the splendid feats which Ivan-Tsarevitch had performed to defeat his treacherous second son, but was amazed and delighted by his companions. Like Ushkar Khan, he felt there was no object or honour in his kingdom which was fine enough to bestow upon his champions, but if there was anything which Ivan desired, now was the time to ask for it. Ivan fell silent at these words and asked for some time to think about them.

King Volkyev's injury weighed on him. Prince Ilya was also upset by the wolf king's trauma. A lead ball about the size and shape of a grape was removed from his shoulder. There were no lingering signs of infection. The muscle kept him off all four paws, but allowed him to move freely in his human form, even if his shoulder was kept disabled in bandages. Ilya and Ivan were his constant companions and banned everyone else from the room except the physician on his daily visit.

"I am going to get soft and weak if I have to lie in bed all day," he started to complain.

"What was that?" Prince Ilya nuzzled at his temples and started to nibble at his ear, while Ivan-Tsarevitch settled between the wolf-king's legs, licked at his stomach and, peeling the trousers off, his thighs. "I couldn't … quite … hear you."

"I …uh, we did this all last night." Volkyev arched as his body responded to the soft caresses. "Shouldn't I …um, shouldn't I---?"

Ivan's tongue worked along his cock.

"I forgot what I was about to say."

"Oh," Prince Ilya started to strip, smooth pale skin unfurling as the clothes dropped away. "It couldn't have been that important then."

Soon, everything else was forgotten in the slip of skin against skin, and lips, and breath, and hair.

Eventually, Ivan-Tsarevitch followed Prince Ilya back to the Ushkara Khanate and became his companion there. King Volkyev returned to the forest, but frequently made his way south where stories spread of the two handsome princes who hunted in the company of a magnificent wolf. In time, when Ilya became Khan, Ushkara was renowned for its flourishing civilization and the general good health, prosperity and happiness of its people.

_-fin-_


End file.
